Questioned, he could tell but little. He had seen an object—a dark bulky something—in the road, and had fired. It was too dark to see clearly, but he could not have missed. Had it been of this earth it would now be dead.
After the shot it had vanished among the shadows. He was hurrying toward it when something crashed down upon him from the overhanging boughs. Long, hairy fingers closed about his throat and all went black. It was the devil himself—of that he was positive.
Even these startling events might have been forgotten, if the Voice had given an opportunity to forget. Now here, now there, it would be heard—sometimes in the direction of the ridge hills, at other times from the river growth in the lowlands. Often it seemed quite near, and dogs would bristle and whine, and lie under the beds with green-glowing eyes, as they quivered in nervous fear. The horses, too, would tremble in their stalls when the unknown monster broke the night stillness with its unearthly:
“Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—”
The valley people seldom ventured out at night; and the younger men no longer sought opportunity to boast of their bravery.
It was some weeks after Jeanne Delloux was buried that Margaret Kingsley, the young and pretty teacher of the valley school, disappeared.
It was the Carroll’s who boarded her that winter, and John Carroll had gone on a trip to the lower mill. Jennie, his wife, and the teacher were alone in the cabin that night. Jennie had protested that she would not be afraid, since Margaret would be with her.
As Jennie related it, they had been seated before the fire, she engaged in darning and Margaret correcting examination papers. For a time they had been silently working when—from quite nearby—it came:
“Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—”
Sick and limp from terror, Jennie’s work rolled from her lap to the floor. The dog was outside, and piteously it whined and scratched at the door, but she dared not open it.