"What did I see? At the first glimpse a faint light from a cobwebbed window, a narrow room and a floor—red. Was it blood? A sickening mouldy smell came forth, but as I forced myself to look again I saw that it was only red tiles that had startled me. There was an upright brick range in a corner, an old water-tank, some shelves and a cupboard. A missing pane of glass left a space through which the air had entered and moaned up the broad-mouthed flue that opened above the range. This was the ominous 'signal' we had heard in answer to the footsteps. The dust was thick over everything, and the only signs of life were the rat-tracks on the floor. We stood still for a few moments, overwhelmed at this solution of the occult 'influence' that had so subtly acted on Annie's nerves, and filled me with no less terror.
"The house had been built for a hôtel garni; that is, a house with furnished rooms or apartments, something like a tenement-house in your country. This was the kitchen of the suite, and belonged to the two rooms we had taken. Being unused for its proper object, and too small for a bed-chamber, it had been closed, and appeared as if it had been unentered for years. I turned to Annie to see how she would bear this prosaic explanation of our alarm, but with the air of one who had expected nothing but this from the beginning, she remarked, 'Now you see how much better it is to look into such things. This room would have furnished me with bad dreams for the remainder of my life, and here I find it is only a commonplace kitchen. Think how ludicrous to have the horrors over a kitchen! Sha'n't I tell of your fright when we get home—how you didn't want to open the door, and wanted to 'let well enough alone'? The place might be haunted by the ghost of a chicken or a rabbit, but, my dear, you should not allow that to terrify you.'
"'Perhaps it was the ghost of a chicken that you feared last night, and that caused your presentiments this morning. I hope you will inform the police of what you have discovered here,' I remarked quietly.
"'A truce, a truce, good Jane! I will say no more. We were both boobies. But wouldn't it be 'cute to live here, you and me, and make our own breakfast? Look at the hole for charcoal, and the little cupboard, the nails for the pots and pans to hang on: everything is complete. That room could be for dining, the other a parlor, and—'
"'The only drawback would be that, except at the North Pole, the night comes once in twenty-four hours.'
"'Don't be mean, Jane! Do come in here a minute: it's a dear little place.'
"'You will certainly make a housekeeper if a kitchen gives you such ecstasy. Come out, I am so hungry. Put on your bonnet and leave this elysium: I have had enough of it.'
"'You come in for a second: it will shake the terror off and you won't dream of it. That is a cure my old nurse once gave me for laying ghosts.'
"'It may be a good plan to shake off the terror, but the dust on you will not be shaken off so easily.'
"'Suppose,' and she stamped her foot—'suppose that the floor should be hollow, and that this were only a pretended kitchen after all, or that there was a trap-door painted to resemble tiles, or a sliding panel.' Here she felt over the surface of the wall. 'Why should I feel so queer last night if this was really nothing but a kitchen?'