The Red House. George Agnew Chamberlain

overhead grew denser until darkness took on solidity, something you could cut out in blocks like ice. As he rounded a curve, his heart gave a leap and jammed in his throat. Straight ahead rose a ghostly white column and seconds like ages passed before he recognized it for a shadbush in bloom. That was a laugh, wasn’t it? Well then, why not laugh? Because he couldn’t, because he was sneaking along as quiet as though he were trying to crawl up on a deer. How far had he come from the ramp? Half a mile? A mile? No, it couldn’t be because——

      Without warning, something heaved downward from the right. Ripping through greenbrier and honeysuckle, snapping alders like gunfire, something as big and hard as a boulder caromed against his shoulder and sent him headlong into the tarn. The icy water struck like a cleaver, severing reason from mind. Frantic with fright, he scuttled for the shore, climbed the bank and ran. He didn’t need to see, feel or hear, for terror was a sure guide. It drove him back along the path and up the ramp. The big house loomed black with denial, but a gleam of light beckoned from the plank cabin. He plastered himself against its door, and a voice he had never heard tore out of his own throat, “Let me in! Let me in!”