Pigeons from Hell | Page 7

it back up the
stairway, it failed to illuminate the darkness that hung like a tangible
fog at the head of the stair.
"The damn thing was conjured," muttered Buckner. "Nothin' else. It
couldn't act like that naturally."
"Turn the light into the room," begged Griswell. "See if John - if John
is---"
He could not put the ghastly thought into words, but Buckner
understood.
He swung the beam around, and Griswell had never dreamed that the
sight of the gory body of a murdered man could bring such relief.
"He's still there," grunted Buckner. "If he walked after he was killed, he
hasn't walked since. But that thing---"
Again he turned the light up the stair, and stood chewing his lip and
scowling. Three times he half lifted his gun. Griswell read his mind.
The sheriff was tempted to plunge back up that stair, take his chance
with the unknown. But common sense held him back.
"I wouldn't have a chance in the dark," he muttered. "And I've got a
hunch the light would go out again."
He turned and faced Griswell squarely.
"There's no use dodgin' the question. There's somethin' hellish in this
house, and I believe I have an inklin' of what it is. I don't believe you
killed Branner. Whatever killed him is up there - now. There's a lot
about your yarn that don't sound sane; but there's nothin' sane about a
flashlight goin' out like this one did. I don't believe that thing upstairs is
human. I never met anything I was afraid to tackle in the dark before,

but I'm not goin' up there until daylight. It's not long until dawn. We'll
wait for it out there on that gallery."
The stars were already paling when they came out on the broad porch.
Buckner seated himself on the balustrade, facing the door, his pistol
dangling in his fingers. Griswell sat down near him and leaned back
against a crumbling pillar. He shut his eyes, grateful for the faint breeze
that seemed to cool his throbbing brain. He experienced a dull sense of
unreality. He was a stranger in a strange land, a land that had become
suddenly imbued with black horror. The shadow of the noose hovered
above him, and in that dark house lay John Branner, with his butchered
head - like the figments of a dream these facts spun and eddied in his
brain until all merged in a gray twilight as sleep came uninvited to his
weary soul.
He awoke to a cold white dawn and full memory of the horrors of the
night. Mists curled about the stems of the pines, crawled in smoky
wisps up the broken walk. Buckner was shaking him.
"Wake up! It's daylight."
Griswell rose, wincing at the stiffness of his limbs. His face was gray
and old.
"I'm ready. Let's go upstairs."
"I've already been!" Buckner's eyes burned in the early dawn. "I didn't
wake you up. I went as soon as it was light. I found nothin'."
"The tracks of the bare feet---"
"Gone!"
"Gone?"
"Yes, gone! The dust had been disturbed all over the hall, from the
point where Branner's tracks ended; swept into corners. No chance of
trackin' anything there now. Something obliterated those tracks while

we sat here, and I didn't hear a sound. I've gone through the whole
house. Not a sign of anything."
Griswell shuddered at the thought of himself sleeping alone on the
porch while Buckner conducted his exploration.
"What shall we do?" he asked listlessly. "With those tracks gone there
goes my only chance of proving my story."
"We'll take Branner's body into the county-seat," answered Buckner.
"Let me do the talkin'. If the authorities knew the facts as they appear,
they'd insist on you being confined and indicted. I don't believe you
killed Branner - but neither a district attorney, judge nor jury would
believe what you told me, or what happened to us last night. I'm
handlin' this thing my own way. I'm not goin' to arrest you until I've
exhausted every other possibility.
"Say nothin' about what's happened here, when we get to town. I'll
simply tell the district attorney that John Branner was killed by a party
or parties unknown, and that I'm workin' on the case.
"Are you game to come back with me to this house and spend the night
here, sleepin' in that room as you and Branner slept last night?"
Griswell went white, but answered as stoutly as his ancestors might
have expressed their determination to hold their cabins in the teeth of
the Pequots: "I'll do it."
"Let's go then; help me pack the body out to your auto."
Griswell's soul revolted at the sight of John Branner's bloodless face in
the chill white dawn, and the feel of