Джон Пристли - Benighted

"Most people'd tell you that you were either a fool or a hero," Sir William remarked, rather heavily. This rising tide of high spirits made him feel heavy. But he was trying to deal honestly with the youngster, who wasn't a bad sort in his own scatter-brained fashion. "But I don't say so, though you may be both for all I know. It'll probably be the best day's work you've done for a damned long time."

"It could easily be that and still not be up to much," said Penderel. "But I know what you mean. And I can't help feeling – - "

But there came an interruption from Gladys, who was still standing near the foot of the stairs. "I can hear somebody talking up there," she called to them.

Penderel moved a step or two in her direction. "That'll be the Wavertons. They must be introspecting together on one of the upper floors, walking up and down corridors still playing Truth. And quite right too!"

Her hand went up. "Hush! I'm trying to listen. They're coming down, I think. Oh! what's that?" They had all heard it – a kind of laugh. And now the Wavertons came running downstairs, pale and dusty and somehow rather tattered.

"Listen, you fellows." Philip hurried across to the two men, and began to gasp out his news.

"What is it?" Gladys clutched at Margaret. "Tell me quick." Something terrible was going to happen, she knew there was. She felt sick. Everything was suddenly falling to pieces.

"There's a madman upstairs," Margaret cried jerkily. "Morgan's let him out. He's dangerous. They both are."

"Where's he now?" She knew, knew there was something, had known it all along.

"Up there, somewhere." Margaret made a little gesture of helplessness. "Coming down, perhaps."

"We must all get out of the way then. Lock ourselves in somewhere."

"He might set fire to the place. He's tried to do that before."

"They can prevent him. Three of them." Gladys looked towards the men, and then, moved by a common impulse, they both hurried across. They felt the whole house pressing down upon them.

"Even if he's as bad as all that," Sir William was saying, "the three of us can down him." He was quite cool, and evidently – rather to their surprise – a man of courage. But then no imagination was harrying him. He didn't see the whole fabric of sense and security shredding, rotting away.

"But there's Morgan; don't forget him," Philip replied. "I've had a tussle with him already and was lucky enough to trip him. He was a bit slow and silly, of course. But he's as strong as a bull. I don't know what sort of state he's in now, but he might be as bad as the lunatic – worse."

"If the worst came to the worst," Sir William said, "we could all clear out. In fact the best thing we can do is to get out of the way."

"You're forgetting what Waverton said," Penderel put in. "I mean about him setting fire to things. This old place'd burn easily, wouldn't it?" He looked at Philip.

"I should think it would. It's full of rotten old timber. That's the danger. If he gets down here, left to himself, he could set the whole place going in a jiffy."

"Well, let him, I say," said Gladys, viciously. "Let the rotten old place burn."

"No, that's mad, Gladys," Penderel told her.

"Besides," Philip added hastily, "there are the other Femms – - "

"Poor old Sir Roderick upstairs, unable to move," cried Margaret. "It was he who warned us, only just in time too. We can't leave him."

Philip and Penderel hastened to agree. Sir William looked at them and then at the stairs. "Well, what are we going to do, then?" he asked. "Time's going. Though nothing's happened yet. It may be all piffle. All these people here are a bit crazy, so far as I can see."

"No, it isn"t." Margaret was vehement. "Didn't you hear that horrible laugh? And Philip saw the room."

Gladys wrung her hands. "I'm sure it's true; I know it is." She sought out Penderel with hollowed eyes. "Yes, I do. I've felt it creeping." Then she recovered herself. "But we can do something, can't we?" It was addressed to him alone, wistfully; the others were nothing.

"Of course we can," he told her. But he felt a sudden ache, and there followed closely upon it a growing anger.

Then they all jumped. A door had been opened, and someone was standing there. It was Miss Femm. How she came to be there, nobody could imagine, but there she was, still fully dressed, peering at them over a stump of candle. They didn't wait for her to screech out a question. "Your brother's loose!" cried Philip, who was nearest.

"What, Saul?" The name went screaming up.

"They're coming down now. Look!" Gladys cried, pointing. A dark bulk was moving slowly down the stairs, and another behind it, with a vague blur of face turned towards them. The one behind must be Saul. That hand sliding down the banisters was Saul"s. Now it had stopped; but Morgan was still moving, coming down alone.

"Don't do anything yet," Philip whispered. "Morgan may be all right now. We'll see."

Morgan reached the bottom, lurched forward a step or two, and then stood still, lowering at them. Such light as there was from the little lamp fell now on his face, which looked horrible – for it was all covered with blood. His hands too seemed to be reddened.

"Cut himself with that glass," Philip whispered again.

"What's he going to do?" This was from Penderel, though he was not looking at Morgan but at that hand which still rested on the banisters.

"Get back." Sir William was motioning to Margaret and Gladys.

Miss Femm had been standing absolutely still, staring fixedly at Morgan. Now she shook her fist at him, and her voice went piercing through them all. "Morgan, you brute beast, go away. Hide yourself before God strikes you dead."

The laugh they had heard before, empty and terrible, rang down from the dim stairs. "That's Rebecca, sister Rebecca. Don't listen to her, Morgan. She's been talking to God for years now and He's never heard her once. He thinks she's a maggot, a fat little white maggot. He doesn't know she's got a soul. She'll have to die and be born again before He'll hear her. They're all maggots – still creeping in the rotting old corpse they call life." Saul's voice thickened with sudden fury. "Trample "em, smash "em – and then I'll burn their filthy pulp – leave nothing but ashes – clean ashes – clean, clean, clean!" After that it was a foul gabble. They had a moment's vision of a white and blindly working face, pushed out over the banisters into the light, while the voice went gibbering on.

Then there was a little space of silence, during which nobody moved. But it seemed to them as if the ground beneath their feet was sinking, as if they were blackly descending through putrid air.

Now the madman on the stairs spoke again and his mood had suddenly changed; he seemed quietly merry. "No, Morgan, old flesh and bone, wait, wait for me." They saw the hand disappear. "Still something yet to do. Then we'll finish it together." A stir in the shadows, a creak or two from the stairs, and he was gone.

Instead of waiting, however, Morgan, who had been standing there, glowering at Philip, was suddenly quickened into life. With a hoarse cry, he charged across, straight at Philip, like a mastodon. There was just time for Philip to swing aside and escape the full weight of the charge, and the next moment they were all struggling together. Sir William was hanging on to one great arm and shoulder, and Philip on to the other.

"Get him in there," screamed Miss Femm, as they went desperately swaying. "You can shut him up." She was pointing to the door through which she had come.

Penderel made up his mind now, and there was no time to be lost. He threw himself at Morgan, who went rolling back with the other two still clinging to him. "Can you do that?" he cried to them, as he pushed at the struggling giant. "Shall I knock him on the head?"