HOUSE OF GHOSTS.

by Maxwell Grant.

Stanbridge Manor was haunted - but whether by real ghosts or by humans was the question, and The Shadow had the aid of Joe Dunninger, world's greatest "ghost-breaker," in this battle against supernatural crime.

CHAPTER I.

GHOST MANSION.

CROUCHED like a monster awaiting human prey, Stanbridge Manor loomed ominously in the gathering night. The tower above the two-story mansion gave the effect of a watching head, while the wings of the wide-sprawled building had the look of mammoth arms, ready to close upon wayfarers with a deadly embrace.

On the slope that fronted the manor stood a wide stone gateway, yawning a welcome to hapless visitors. The Stygian gloom of that cavity defeated its greeting, at least by night. As a rule, cars that came along the hill road shied from those gates like frightened things.

There was good reason to shun Stanbridge Manor. It was known as a house of ghosts.

The place was a proper haunt for spirits of the dead. Not only did the giant trees behind the mansion form a weaving background of weird fantastic figures; beneath those trees dwelt the dead themselves. They were the members of the Stanbridge family, generations of them, interred in the graves of their own private cemetery. In that graveyard, a presiding figure among the congress of tombstones stood the whitened bulk of a mausoleum, which served as a temporary shelter for each new addition to the Stanbridge list of dead.

Forbidding as the mansion was to strangers, the mausoleum was equally so to dwellers in the house. For there were members of the Stanbridge clan still living in the mansion, amid an atmosphere of whispering ghosts that constantly reminded them of their awaiting fate.

As the fortunes of the Stanbridge family had shrunk, so had the size of the grounds surrounding the manor. In recent years, the great iron fence that formed the boundary had been shortened and its remnants sold for junk. No longer did the Stanbridge estate include the home of Wiggam, the old caretaker. It was well outside the fence, still standing only because Wiggam himself had bought it with his life's savings. Other houses had been built along the rising slope on ground that once was Stanbridge property, but they had stopped just short of Wiggam's cottage.

Wiggam's place was the final landmark. After that came the gates through which only Stanbridges pa.s.sed, except for Wiggam and Dr. Torrance, who was stillthe Stanbridge family physician despite his more taxing duties as county coroner.

TONIGHT, a car was climbing the old road. From the confident way it nosed along, the car obviously belonged to Dr. Torrance. As it veered into the gateway, its sudden stop was not due to any fright on the physician's part.

True, Torrance had sighted a figure on the driveway ahead, but he knew it wasn't any ghost.

It was only Wiggam, the faithful caretaker, paying his evening visit to the family that he still served, though he was no longer on the Stanbridge payroll.

Though it wasn't far up to the house, Wiggam accepted Torrance's invitation to ride with him. They sat together in the car, two gray haired men whose resemblance ended with that feature. Torrance was rugged, his eyes showing sharply through their gla.s.ses, a man whose vitality belied his years. Wiggam on the contrary looked tired, his face consisting chiefly of droops. Not worry, but disappointment had aged the old retainer, a thing which Torrance knew.

"How are things at the manor, Wiggam?" Torrance put the query in a cheery tone. "Has Roger brightened the family since he returned?"

"He should have, sir," replied Wiggam, seriously, "but I'm afraid the ghosts have been too much for him."

"Those ghosts!" Torrance gave a snort as he swung around the final turn in the driveway. "They're all right for Gustave and Jennifer who have lived here too long for their own good. But they shouldn't bother Roger."

"I'm afraid they do, sir -"

"I know. Roger said so himself. That's why I promised to drop in this evening. I simply want to a.s.sure him that strange things do not happen around Stanbridge Manor."

As Torrance spoke, a strange thing did occur. Under the shelter of the porte-cochere, the doctor was turning off the headlights. From the blackness past the wing of Stanbridge Manor, those lights blinked back, first one and then the other, like shining eyes from the night.

Noting the phenomenon, Wiggam clutched the physician's arm and whispered hoa.r.s.ely: "Those glimmers, sir! Did you see them?"

"Nothing but reflections," scoffed Torrance. "My eyes are sharper than yours, Wiggam. Come, come, man! You are more nervous than Roger was, when he called at my office this afternoon!"

Dim was the glow from the deep windows of the mansion as Torrance and Wiggam ascended the front steps. Giving a loud knock, Torrance opened the door without ceremony and stepped into the house, with Wiggam close behind him.

They came directly into a great hall that served as a living room. Leading from the hall were arched doorways into other rooms and pa.s.sages, while at the right, a large staircase curved its way up to the second floor.

THREE people were seated at the large fireplace situated on the left. One was Gustave Stanbridge, present owner of the decadent manor, a man whose once florid face had lost all color and whose hair had thinned to slender streaks.

Opposite Gustave was his sister Jennifer, whose high-bridge nose and wide eyes marked her as a Stanbridge. She was older than Gustave, who was not pastmiddle age, yet the woman looked younger than her brother. Not only did her face still show its color; her eyes were alive, whereas the man's were as dull as those of a death mask.

Third in the group was Roger Stanbridge, the recent arrival in the homestead. He was in his thirties, a handsome man, whose aristocratic features were offset by his friendly smile. Along with the Stanbridge nose, Roger owned a large shock of hair and his face had the fullness that Gustave's lacked.

Perhaps it was the sight of Gustave that worried Roger, on the basis that he might some day come to resemble his shrunken elder brother.

It was Roger who arose and extended his hand to Torrance. The greeting was warm, yet the doctor noted that the hand itself was icy.

"I'm glad you came, doctor," said Roger. "You see -"

"You see nothing!" interrupted Jennifer in a sharp, but low-pitched tone.

"In this house you only hear. The dead have not yet chosen to speak, though they give their messages to me!"

Ending with a stabbing laugh, Jennifer gestured to an instrument on the low table before her. The object was like a tiny table itself, a heart-shaped contrivance mounted on three small wheels. From its center, a pencil pointed downward to a sheet of paper that bore numerous scrawls. On one side were blank sheets, on the other a small stack of papers inscribed with scribbles.

"Yes, I've been hearing things," admitted Roger. "Footsteps upstairs and in the kitchen. Whispers through the doorways. Gustave noticed them, too, but won't admit he heard them. As for Jennifer, she claims she hears everything, but all the while she's been busy with that ouija board of hers."

Jennifer inserted a scoffing laugh.

"Ouija board!" The woman's voice was contemptuous. "Such things are for children. It is silly to push a pointer from one letter to another and have it spell out messages. This is a planchette."

She pointed to the heart-shaped thing. With an obliging nod, Dr. Torrance went over and placed his hands on one side of the roller device, while Jennifer pressed the other. The little stand began to twist between them, its pencil making new scribbles.

"You see, Jennifer?" Torrance raised his hands with a depreciating gesture.

"Only scrawls, nothing more. The planchette does not work with me."

"Because you are not psychic," snapped Jennifer. "Alone, I have received messages all evening. Messages from Donald."

Setting her eyes in a hard glare, Jennifer turned them directly upon Gustave, who shifted uneasily in his chair. Catching Torrance's glance, Gustave sprang to his feet and raised two scrawny hands, both clenched.

"As Heaven is my witness, doctor!" Gustave's voice rose to a scream. "I had nothing to do with Donald's death! I respected him as my older brother -"

"And you envied him," inserted Jennifer with her sharp cackle, "because he owned this mansion. Donald died because you wanted him to do so. He told me that, again tonight."

Waving the written papers from beside the planchette, Jennifer thrustthem close to Gustave's face. Savagely, the dull-faced man s.n.a.t.c.hed the papers and threw them in the fire. Instead of duplicating her brother's rage, Jennifer turned with a pleased chuckle as though she had won another argument.

SILENCE followed as Jennifer stalked across the frayed carpet and entered an arched pa.s.sage under the stairs. Her footsteps sounded on the bare floor and dwindled into the hollow depths of the house. Gustave gave a troubled groan.

"She's going to get her cape," said Gustave. "She'll be back to tell us that she intends to visit Donald's grave. She goes there every night and always she looks for the figure in the tower. The figure that means death!"

"Easy, Gustave," soothed Roger. "Jennifer hasn't seen the figure yet.

She's only heard things."

"And so have we!" blurted Gustave. "Yes, Roger, I'll admit it! I've heard those footsteps, too. Listen -"

Pausing dramatically, Gustave pointed upward. From somewhere on the second floor came creaks that were distinctly footsteps. Quickly, Dr. Torrance crossed the hall and looked along the pa.s.sage that Jennifer had followed. He rubbed his head, puzzled, for it wasn't the direction to the back stairs, the only way by which Jennifer could have reached the second floor.

Footsteps ceased upstairs. They were followed by a more startling manifestation. Down from the second floor came a clatter of flying objects; rusted nails that bombarded the steps of the front stairway. Some scattered through the open banister, striking Torrance's shoulder as he turned to witness peppering objects which were so numerous they must have formed a huge fistful.

Starting toward the staircase, Roger Stanbridge halted, his face drawn like Gustave's. It was apparent that Roger must have witnessed similar manifestations recently and was hesitant about going upstairs. So Torrance rounded the bottom of the staircase and dashed to the second floor, with Wiggam following him.

They found the upper hallway deserted. Torrance gave a suspicious glance along a pa.s.sage that led above the distant kitchen; then, bluffly, the physician called down to Roger: "Where is Hector?"

Torrance was referring to the one remaining servant in the Stanbridge household. Roger gave a weary headshake.

"Hector has gone to bed," he said. "He always retires early, dog-tired after a full day's work. No, doctor, it wasn't Hector who threw those things."

Still suspicious, Torrance surveyed the upper pa.s.sage. To Wiggam, he remarked that Hector couldn't possibly have fled back to his room in time to avoid observation, a thing with which Wiggam quite agreed. Then, noting the doorway of the back stairs, Torrance had another idea.

"Hector could have slipped down to the kitchen!" exclaimed the physician.

"Go down there and find him, Wiggam!"

Wiggam hesitated as though torn between dread of ghosts and fear of offending Hector. With a return of nonchalance, Roger lighted a cigarette and called up from below: "I'll go around through the dining room and see if Hector is in the kitchen -"

At that moment, a terrific clatter intervened. It came from the kitchen,the crash of smashing chinaware hurled in heavy style. Waving to Wiggam, Dr.

Torrance rushed to the back stairs and started down, while Roger, his boldness returned, made a dash around through the dining room. Seeing Wiggam go with Torrance, Gustave followed Roger.

The four men arrived in the kitchen, to stare aghast at a ma.s.s of ruined crockery that had tumbled from a table beside the sink, along with a candlestick that Hector used when washing dishes, which he hadn't done tonight.

Except for the smashed chinaware, the kitchen was empty!

"Listen!" Gustave's face was ashen, his voice frantic as he clutched Roger's arm. "Do you hear it?"

From the outside distance came a prolonged shriek, as eerie as a banshee's wail. As the sound trailed, Jennifer's cackling laugh intervened from the kitchen doorway.

"Only the evening train, Gustave," spoke Jennifer. "Stopping at Willow Glen, as it did the night when Donald died!"

"The night after Donald died," corrected Gustave in a wavering tone. "It was bringing the specialist from New York. He arrived too late to help poor Donald."

Throwing back her dark gray cape, Jennifer crossed her arms. Her voice tuned to the fading whistle, she declared: "Donald will know which of us is right. I shall ask him to write his answer on the planchette!"

As Jennifer turned to go back to the great hall, Gustave followed, pleading vainly for his sister to believe him. Three people remained in the kitchen, staring at one another above the wreckage of smashed dishes and broken candles.

Dr. Torrance, man of fact, and Wiggam, the loyal family retainer, could understand, each by his own light, why Roger Stanbridge was willing to declare that the ghosts of the manor were real!

CHAPTER II.

TRAIL IN THE NIGHT.

THE trail of a whistle.

Like the occupants of Stanbridge Manor, The Shadow heard that same long blare, as he sat in a parked car stopped by a crossroads where a sign pointed to the town of Coledale.

So far The Shadow had never heard of Stanbridge Manor, once the pride of Coledale. He was interested chiefly in checking the direction from which the whistle came, for by his calculations it indicated that the train must have stopped at some way station before reaching Coledale. So The Shadow added a timetable to the items that were lying on the seat beside him.

In a car illuminated only by a dashlight, The Shadow was invisible, as well he might be, considering that he was attired in his favorite regalia, consisting of a black cloak and a slouch hat. As for the objects on the seat beside him, they fully explained why The Shadow was in this vicinity.

The first exhibits were clippings and photographs. One batch concerned a sly-looking gentleman named Harvey Crispin, wanted for embezzlement of thirty thousand dollars from the funds of an insurance company. Next in order was Wallace Freer, a smug-faced individual who had turned the same trick on the wholesale diamond house for which he worked, the chief difference being thatFreer had bettered Crispin's grab by about twenty thousand dollars.

On a road map beside The Shadow was a red line marking Crispin's trail.

It stopped at a town not many miles from Coledale. A blue line traced the travels of Freer and it likewise ended in a nearby town. The inference was that both embezzlers were somewhere in this general neighborhood.

Ordinarily The Shadow would have left such cases to the law. There was an important reason why he considered them of unusual consequence. That reason was Carl Dorthan.

As an embezzler, Dorthan outmatched Crispin and Freer combined. In one blow, Dorthan had acquired a hundred thousand dollars from the bank where he worked; at least he had acc.u.mulated that sum by steadily favoring himself in the books. A few days ago, Dorthan had left the bank. Found there was a dead watchman; lost were the funds that Dorthan had appropriated.

The blame was on a teller named Goodwin, though the fault lay in Dorthan's books. The last man seen to leave the bank was Goodwin. In fact, he was the only man who seemingly could have slain the watchman; though he stoutly denied it.

The only way to prove Goodwin's innocence was to find Dorthan.

Some people considered the quest impossible. They believed that Dorthan had been murdered like the watchman, his books falsified to place the blame upon him. But The Shadow did not hold that theory.

Looking up at The Shadow was a photograph of Carl Dorthan. It showed him as a sleek, handsome individual, whose eyes, even in the picture, had a natural shift. Their fixed stare was an acquired sort, like the slight but confident smile on Dorthan's lips. In short, Carl Dorthan was a man who tried to look too honest and even posed for photographs to back the false claim. The Shadow had long since learned to detect those symptoms the moment he observed them.

THE timetable listed a station called Willow Glen, a few miles short of Coledale. It was marked as a flag stop, but so were many of the other stations on this line. The Shadow decided to detour by the Glen on the chance that Dorthan had left the train at that station. If the embezzler had gone on to Coledale, he would be likely to stop at the local hotel, where his trail could be picked up later. So Willow Glen was temporarily of more importance.

By the road map, The Shadow picked the only route that led to Willow Glen.

It was a drive of a few miles over a dirt road. Reaching the turn that led to the station, The Shadow turned off the headlights and coasted the car down the final slope. There was brilliant moonlight, temporarily clear of pa.s.sing clouds and the glow showed The Shadow a perfect path.

Yet the car itself was obscured as it glided between the banks of trees that skirted the moonlit road and the sudden arrival of a cloud favored the finish of The Shadow's coast. As if timed to the exact second, the scene went dark, just as the cloaked driver veered the car in beside a structure that would have been mistaken for anything but a railroad station, except for the track that ran beside it.

Soon a flashlight began to glimmer around the boxlike station. The place was nothing but a tiny waiting room, lacking even a stove for cold weather.

The platform beside the single track was only a path of cinders mixed with gravel.Why there was even a station at Willow Glen remained unexplained until The Shadow crossed the track and turned his flashlight on a sign that was nailed against a tree.