agreed gloomily. "I only hope I haven't got the whole place upset."
I had been leaning against the table as I talked, idly fingering the telephone. I jumped when the bell rang with sudden shrillness. Mrs. Fogarty started, too. She leaned forward and picked up the receiver. Her face was only a blur but I could tell from her shadowy silhouette that she was holding the instrument a few inches away from her ear in that intense, nervous attitude of a rather deaf person who has difficulty in catching what is said from the other end of the wire.
"Hello, hello, who is it?"
Her voice was brisk and professional, curiously out of place in that vaguely illuminated alcove.
There was no reply.
Once again, she asked: "Who is it speaking?"
Instinctively I moved closer. My eyes were fixed on the shining receiver. And for months afterwards I was to associate all telephones with that incredible answering voice. It seemed hardly human. Low and distorted, it crackled across to me in a horribly intimate whisper.
And I heard the words as plainly as though they had been breathed in my own ear. They were:
"I am the thing on the slab.'
This startling repetition of my phrase might have seemed merely ludicrous; it might have seemed infinitely pathetic as a symbol of all the confused, unbalanced minds in the sanitarium. But it was neither. It was the most unnerving experience in my life. There had been something malignant, evil about that hoarse voice.
I stood absolutely motionless, hardly conscious of Mrs. Fogarty's strangled sob and the dull clatter as she dropped the receiver.
Then, on an impulse, I sprang forward, groped for the swinging telephone, lifted it.
"Who is it?" I shouted. "What do you want?"
Dead silence, then once more that low, husky whisper. The voice was remotely familiar and yet I could not connect it with any particular individual.
"There will be another thing on the slab, Duluth," it said. "Take care that it is not you."
My lips framed an answer but there was a faint click from the other end of the wire. After a moment I replaced the receiver dazedly and peered through the darkness at Mrs. Fogarty. The night nurse was leaning forward, her hands over her face. I had never seen her like that before—without her steel control.
"I'm frightfully sorry," I said at length. "All this is my fault. I never thought of you."
"It's all right, Mr. Duluth." The words came flat, toneless.
"We'd better find out where that call came from."
Slowly Mrs. Fogarty lifted her eyes. I could see them gleaming faintly in their deep sockets. "We can't, Mr. Duluth. All the telephones on the men's wing are connected directly with this alcove and so is the staff common room. It might have come from anywhere."
"But didn't—didn't you recognize the voice?"
The night nurse rose. As her fingers gripped my arm I could feel that they were trembling. "Listen, Mr. Duluth," she said with sudden severity, "you have done a very foolish, dangerous thing. And this should be a lesson to you. But I do not intend to report it. There has been trouble enough already. And—" her voice sank almost to a whisper—"I think we had both better forget this, not only for your sake, but for mine."
I did not understand her, did not understand her words or the strange intensity of her emotion.
"But, Mrs. Fogarty, if you recognized the voice ... !"
"Mr. Duluth!" The night nurse cut in impulsively. "Did you have any idea whose voice that was?"
"Why no. I thought it was familiar, but ..."
"Very well." Her tone was sharp, defiant. "Perhaps you would understand more clearly if I tell you that I thought I did recognize it."
We were standing very close now and I could make out the lines of her face, gaunt as sculptured granite.
"Well, who was it, Mrs. Fogarty?" I asked softly.
She did not answer for a moment.
"I'm rather hard of hearing," she faltered at length, speaking to herself rather than to me, "and I have had a very trying time to-day. That must be why I
I had been leaning against the table as I talked, idly fingering the telephone. I jumped when the bell rang with sudden shrillness. Mrs. Fogarty started, too. She leaned forward and picked up the receiver. Her face was only a blur but I could tell from her shadowy silhouette that she was holding the instrument a few inches away from her ear in that intense, nervous attitude of a rather deaf person who has difficulty in catching what is said from the other end of the wire.
"Hello, hello, who is it?"
Her voice was brisk and professional, curiously out of place in that vaguely illuminated alcove.
There was no reply.
Once again, she asked: "Who is it speaking?"
Instinctively I moved closer. My eyes were fixed on the shining receiver. And for months afterwards I was to associate all telephones with that incredible answering voice. It seemed hardly human. Low and distorted, it crackled across to me in a horribly intimate whisper.
And I heard the words as plainly as though they had been breathed in my own ear. They were:
"I am the thing on the slab.'
This startling repetition of my phrase might have seemed merely ludicrous; it might have seemed infinitely pathetic as a symbol of all the confused, unbalanced minds in the sanitarium. But it was neither. It was the most unnerving experience in my life. There had been something malignant, evil about that hoarse voice.
I stood absolutely motionless, hardly conscious of Mrs. Fogarty's strangled sob and the dull clatter as she dropped the receiver.
Then, on an impulse, I sprang forward, groped for the swinging telephone, lifted it.
"Who is it?" I shouted. "What do you want?"
Dead silence, then once more that low, husky whisper. The voice was remotely familiar and yet I could not connect it with any particular individual.
"There will be another thing on the slab, Duluth," it said. "Take care that it is not you."
My lips framed an answer but there was a faint click from the other end of the wire. After a moment I replaced the receiver dazedly and peered through the darkness at Mrs. Fogarty. The night nurse was leaning forward, her hands over her face. I had never seen her like that before—without her steel control.
"I'm frightfully sorry," I said at length. "All this is my fault. I never thought of you."
"It's all right, Mr. Duluth." The words came flat, toneless.
"We'd better find out where that call came from."
Slowly Mrs. Fogarty lifted her eyes. I could see them gleaming faintly in their deep sockets. "We can't, Mr. Duluth. All the telephones on the men's wing are connected directly with this alcove and so is the staff common room. It might have come from anywhere."
"But didn't—didn't you recognize the voice?"
The night nurse rose. As her fingers gripped my arm I could feel that they were trembling. "Listen, Mr. Duluth," she said with sudden severity, "you have done a very foolish, dangerous thing. And this should be a lesson to you. But I do not intend to report it. There has been trouble enough already. And—" her voice sank almost to a whisper—"I think we had both better forget this, not only for your sake, but for mine."
I did not understand her, did not understand her words or the strange intensity of her emotion.
"But, Mrs. Fogarty, if you recognized the voice ... !"
"Mr. Duluth!" The night nurse cut in impulsively. "Did you have any idea whose voice that was?"
"Why no. I thought it was familiar, but ..."
"Very well." Her tone was sharp, defiant. "Perhaps you would understand more clearly if I tell you that I thought I did recognize it."
We were standing very close now and I could make out the lines of her face, gaunt as sculptured granite.
"Well, who was it, Mrs. Fogarty?" I asked softly.
She did not answer for a moment.
"I'm rather hard of hearing," she faltered at length, speaking to herself rather than to me, "and I have had a very trying time to-day. That must be why I
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