Arthur Zagat - The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IX

“No.” The commander of the ants paused and stroked his chin. “We’re moving in.”

In her deep-buried kingdom of Theros, Phaestra reveals the amazing secret of the Silver Dome.

In a secluded spot among the hills of northern New Jersey stood the old DeBost mansion, a rambling frame structure of many wings and gables that was well-nigh hidden from the road by the half-mile or more of second-growth timber which intervened. High on the hill it stood, and it was only by virtue of its altitude that an occasional glimpse might be obtained of weatherbeaten gable or partly tumbled-down chimney. The place was reputed to be haunted since the death of old DeBost, some seven years previously, and the path which had once been a winding driveway was now seldom trod by human foot.

It was now two years since Edwin Leland bought the estate for a song and took up his residence in the gloomy old house. And it had then been vacant for five years since DeBost shot himself in the northeast bedroom. Leland’s associates were sure he would repent of his bargain in a very short time, but he stayed on and on in the place, with no company save that of his man-servant, an aged hunch-back who was known to outsiders only as Thomas.

Leland was a scientist of note before he buried himself in the DeBost place, and had been employed in the New York research laboratory of one of the large electrical manufacturers, where he was much admired and not a little envied by his fellow workers. These knew almost nothing of his habits or of his personal affairs, and were much surprised when he announced one day that he had come into a sizable fortune and was leaving the organization to go in for private research and study. Attempts to dissuade him were of no avail, and the purchase of the DeBost property followed, after which Leland dropped from sight for nearly two years.

Then, on a blustery winter day, a strange telephone call was received at the laboratory where he had previously worked. It was from old Thomas, out there in the DeBost mansion, and his quavering voice asked for Frank Rowley, the genial young engineer whose work had been most closely associated with Leland’s.

“Oh, Mr. Rowley,” wailed the old man, when Frank responded to the call, “I wish you would come out here right away. The master has been acting very queerly of late, and to-day he has locked himself in his laboratory and will not answer my knocks.”

“Why don’t you break in the door?” asked Frank, looking through the window at the snow storm that still raged.

“I thought of that, Mr. Rowley, but it is of oak and very thick. Besides, it is bound with steel or iron straps and is beyond my powers.”

“Why not call the police?” growled Frank. He did not relish the idea of a sixty or seventy mile drive in the blizzard.

“Oh—no—no—no!” Old Thomas was panicky at the suggestion. “The master told me he’d kill me if I ever did that.”

Before Frank could formulate a reply, there came a sharp gasp from the other end of the line, a wailing cry and a thud as of a falling body; then silence. All efforts to raise Leland’s number merely resulted in “busy” or “line out of order” reports.

Frank Rowley was genuinely concerned. Though he had never been a close friend of Leland’s, the two had worked on many a knotty problem together and were in daily contact during the nearly ten years that the other man had worked in the same laboratory.

“Say, Tommy,” said Frank, replacing the receiver and turning to his friend, Arnold Thompson, who sat at an adjoining desk, “something has happened out at Leland’s place in Sussex County. Want to take a drive out there with me?”

“What? On a day like this? Why not take the train?”

“Don’t be foolish, Tommy,” said Frank. “The place is eight miles from the nearest station, which is a flag stop out in the wilds. And, even if you could find a cab there—which you couldn’t—there isn’t a taxi driver in Jersey who’d take you up into those mountains on a day like this. No, we’ll have to drive. It’ll be okay. I’ve got chains on the rear and a heater in the old coupe, so it shouldn’t be so bad. What do you say?”

So Tommy, who usually followed wherever Frank led, was prevailed upon to make the trip. He had no particular feeling for Leland, but he sensed an adventure, and, in Frank’s company, he could ask for no more.

Frank was a careful driver, and three hours were required to make the sixty-mile journey. Consequently, it was late in the afternoon when they arrived at the old DeBost estate. It had stopped snowing, but the drifts were deep in spots, and Frank soon found that the car could not be driven through the winding path from the road to the house. So they left it half buried in a drift and proceeded on foot.

It was a laborious task they had undertaken, and, by the time they set foot on the dilapidated porch, even Frank, husky and athletic as was his build, was puffing and snorting from his exertions. Little Tommy, who tipped the scales at less than a hundred and twenty, could hardly speak. They both were wet to the waist and in none too good humor.

“Holy smoke!” gasped Tommy, stamping the clinging snow from his sodden trouser legs and shoes, “if it snows any more, how in Sam Hill are we going to get out of this place?”

“Rotten trip I let you in for Tommy,” growled Frank, “and I hope Leland’s worth it. But, darn it all, I just had to come.”

“It’s all right with me, Frank. And maybe it’ll be worth it yet. Look—the front door’s open.”

He pointed to the huge oaken door and Frank saw that it was ajar. The snow on the porch was not deep and they saw that footprints led from the open door to a corner of the porch. At that point the snow on the railing was disturbed, as if a hurrying man had clung to it a moment before jumping over and into the drifts below. But the tracks led no further, for the drifting snow had covered all excepting a hollow where some body had landed.

“Thomas!” exclaimed Frank. “And he was in a hustle, by the looks of the tracks. Bet he was frightened while at the telephone and beat it.”

They entered the house and closed the door behind them. It was growing quite dark and Frank searched for the light switch. This was near the door, and, at pressure on the upper button, the spacious old hall with its open staircase was revealed dimly by the single remaining bulb in a cluster set in the center of the high ceiling. The hall was unfurnished, excepting for a telephone table and chair, the chair having fallen to the floor and the receiver of the telephone dangling from the edge of the table by its cord.

“You must have heard the chair fall,” commented Tommy, “and it sure does look as if Thomas left in a hurry. Wonder what it was that frightened him?”

The house was eerily silent and the words echoed awesomely through the adjoining rooms which connected with the hall through large open doorways.

“Spooky place, isn’t it?” returned Frank.

And then they were both startled into immobility by a rumble that seemed to shake the foundations of the house. Heavier and heavier became this vibration, as if some large machine was coming up to speed. Louder and louder grew the rumble until it seemed that the rickety old house must be shaken down about their ears. Then there came a whistling scream from the depths of the earth—from far underground it seemed to be—and this mounted in pitch until their eardrums tingled. Then abruptly the sounds ceased, the vibration stopped, and once more there was the eery silence.