"Yes, my tower," said the voice, still alternating between the tones of an old toothless woman and the hoarse croaking of a raven. "My tower; the place where I was imprisoned, the place where I saw dark spirits of the dead, and heard the secrets of those who cannot be seen by human eyes. Here I lay, unloved, uncared for; here my bones were burnt and my flesh was consumed; here my guilty soul took its flight, only to come back and haunt my grim prison—sometimes in visible shape, sometimes unseen save by the eyes of the departed. Open the door of my tower, I say, or you shall suffer the tortures I suffered!"
"Oa, my Gor, my Gor!" moaned the trembling voice of Jenkins, "tes Jezebel Grigg, the witch."
"Will you open the door?" continued the voice.
"Oa I caan't!" whined Jenkins like one demented; "when you slocked me out in the mornin', you wos a spruce chap, and 'ad a purty maid weth 'ee. Oa 'ave marcy 'pon me, mawther Grigg; have marcy 'pon me!"
"Mercy," was the reply, "mercy! You have broken your word—disobeyed me. What shall keep me from causing your flesh to drop from your bones, your fingers to wither amidst agonies of pain, your every limb to burn even as mine burned when the fires were lit around me? Do you want to keep company with me, John Jenkins? Open the door, or prepare to go with me to-night!"
"Oa, I will, I will," moaned Jenkins; "I will; but how did 'ee git in 'ere? The doors and gaates be all locked."
"What are doors and gates to Jezebel Grigg's spirit?" and the hooded form laughed; and the laugh to my excited ears was like the croaking of a raven into which the spirit of evil had entered.
I heard the clanking of keys at the door, and a second later Jenkins entered, the lantern shaking in his hand, his face pale as death.
"I say, Maaster," he said, his teeth chattering, his voice quavering.
"Yes," was my reply, and if the truth must be told my heart quaked somewhat, for by his side was the strange hooded form.