The Haunted Bell | Page 7

shame, of cowardice.
Doctor Perdue regarded him keenly and felt of his pulse.
"What peculiar circumstances?" he demanded.
"Well, I--I can hardly explain it myself," replied Mr. Phillips, between
tightly-clenched teeth. "It's intangible, unreal, ghostly--what you will.
Perhaps I can best make you understand it by saying that I'm always--I
always seem to be waiting for something."
Doctor Perdue laughed heartily; Mr. Phillips glared at him.
"Most of us are always waiting for something," said the physician. "If
we got it there wouldn't be any particular object in life. Just what sort
of thing is it you're always waiting for?"
Mr. Phillips arose suddenly and paced the length of the room twice. His
under jaw was thrust out a little, his teeth crushed together, but in his
eyes lay a haunting, furtive fear.

"I'm always waiting for a--for a bell," he blurted fiercely, and his face
became scarlet. "I know it's absurd, but I awake in the night trembling,
and lie for hours waiting, waiting, yet dreading the sound as no man
ever dreaded anything in this world. At my desk I find myself straining
every nerve, waiting, listening. When I talk to any one I'm always
waiting, waiting, waiting! Now, right this minute, I'm waiting, waiting
for it. The thing is driving me mad, man, mad! Don't you understand?"
Doctor Perdue arose with grave face and led the financier back to his
seat.
"You are behaving like a child, Phillips!" he said sharply. "Sit down
and tell me about it."
"Now, look here, Perdue," and Mr. Phillips brought his fist down on the
desk with a crash, "you must believe it--you've got to believe it! If you
don't, I shall know I am mad."
"Tell me about it," urged the physician quietly.
Then haltingly, hesitatingly, the financier related the incidents as they
had happened. Incipient madness, fear, terror, blazed in his eyes, and at
times his pale lips quivered as a child's might. The physician listened
attentively and nodded several times.
"The bell must be--must be haunted!" Mr. Phillips burst out in
conclusion. "There's no reasonable way to account for it. My
common-sense tells me that it doesn't sound at all, and yet I know it
does."
Doctor Perdue was silent for several minutes.
"You know, of course, that your wife did buy the bell of the old
German?" he asked after a while.
"Why, certainly, I know it. It's proved absolutely by the letters he
writes trying to get it back."

"And your fear doesn't come from anything the Japanese said?"
"It isn't the denial of the German; it isn't the childish things Mr.
Matsumi said and did; it's the actual sound of the bell that's driving me
insane--it's the hopeless, everlasting, eternal groping for a reason. It's
an inanimate thing and it acts as if--it acts as if it were alive!"
The physician had been sitting with his fingers on Mr. Phillips' wrist.
Now he arose and mixed a quieting potion which the other swallowed
at a gulp. Soon after his patient went home somewhat more
self-possessed, and with rigid instructions as to the regularity of his life
and habits.
"You need about six months in Europe more than anything else,"
Doctor Perdue declared. "Take three weeks, shape up your business and
go. Meanwhile, if you won't sell the gong or throw it away, keep out of
its reach."
Next morning a man--a stranger--was found dead in the small room
where the gong hung. A bullet through the heart showed the manner of
death. The door leading from the room into the hall was locked on the
outside; an open window facing east indicated how he had entered and
suggested a possible avenue of escape for his slayer.
Attracted by the excitement which followed the discovery of the body,
Mr. and Mrs. Phillips went to investigate, and thus saw the dead man.
The wife entered the room first, and for an instant stood speechless,
staring into the white, upturned face. Then came an exclamation.
"Why, it's the man from whom I bought the gong!" She turned to find
her husband peering over her shoulder. His face was ashen to the lips,
his eyes wide and staring.
"Johann Wagner!" he exclaimed.
Then, as if frenzied, he flung her aside and rushed to where the gong
hung silent and motionless. He seemed bent on destruction as he
reached for it with gripping fingers. Suddenly he staggered as if from a

heavy blow in the face, and covered both eyes with his hands.
"Look!" he screamed.
There was a smudge of fresh, red blood on the fifth bell. Mrs. Phillips
glanced from the bell to him inquiringly.
He stood for a moment with hands pressed to his eyes, then laughed
mirthlessly, demoniacally.

II
Here a small brazier spouting a blue flame, there