The Thing in the Upper Room | Page 2

had no fear to inhabit a haunted chamber; but that
was its reputation, as everybody in the quarter knew; it would be a
misfortune, however, to a stranger to take the room without suspicion,
and to undergo unexpected experiences. Here, however, the old man
checked himself, possibly reflecting that too much information to
inquirers after the upper room might offend his landlord. He hinted as
much, in fact, hoping that his friendly warning would not be allowed to
travel farther. As to the precise nature of the disagreeable
manifestations in the room, who could say? Perhaps there were really
none at all. People said this and that. Certainly, the place had been
untenanted for many years, and he would not like to stay in it himself.
But it might be the good fortune of monsieur to break the spell, and if
monsieur was resolved to defy the revenant, he wished monsieur the
highest success and happiness.
So much for the engraver of watches; and now the concierge of the
neighbouring house led the way up the stately old panelled staircase,
swinging his keys in his hand, and halted at last before the dark door in
the frowning recess. He turned the key with some difficulty, pushed
open the door, and stood back with an action of something not wholly
deference, to allow Attwater to enter first.
A sort of small lobby had been partitioned off at some time, though
except for this the logement was of one large room only. There was
something unpleasant in the air of the place--not a smell, when one
came to analyse one's sensations, though at first it might seem so.
Attwater walked across to the wide window and threw it open. The
chimneys and roofs of many houses of all ages straggled before him,
and out of the welter rose the twin towers of St. Sulpice, scarred and
grim.

Air the room as one might, it was unpleasant; a sickly, even a cowed,
feeling, invaded one through all the senses--or perhaps through none of
them. The feeling was there, though it was not easy to say by what
channel it penetrated. Attwater was resolved to admit none but a
common-sense explanation, and blamed the long closing of door and
window; and the concierge, standing uneasily near the door, agreed that
that must be it. For a moment Attwater wavered, despite himself. But
the rent was very low, and, low as it was, he could not afford a sou
more. The light was good, though it was not a top-light, and the place
was big enough for his simple requirements. Attwater reflected that he
should despise himself ever after if he shrank from the opportunity; it
would be one of those secret humiliations that will rise again and again
in a man's memory, and make him blush in solitude. He told the
concierge to leave door and window wide open for the rest of the day,
and he clinched the bargain.
It was with something of amused bravado that he reported to his few
friends in Paris his acquisition of a haunted room; for, once out of the
place, he readily convinced himself that his disgust and dislike while in
the room were the result of imagination and nothing more. Certainly,
there was no rational reason to account for the unpleasantness;
consequently, what could it be but a matter of fancy? He resolved to
face the matter from the beginning, and clear his mind from any foolish
prejudices that the hints of the old engraver might have inspired, by
forcing himself through whatever adventures he might encounter. In
fact, as he walked the streets about his business, and arranged for the
purchase and delivery of the few simple articles of furniture that would
be necessary, his enterprise assumed the guise of a pleasing adventure.
He remembered that he had made an attempt, only a year or two ago, to
spend a night in a house reputed haunted in England, but had failed to
find the landlord. Here was the adventure to hand, with promise of a
tale to tell in future times; and a welcome idea struck him that he might
look out the ancient history of the room, and work the whole thing into
a magazine article, which would bring a little money.
So simple were his needs that by the afternoon of the day following his
first examination of the room it was ready for use.

He took his bag from the cheap hotel in a little street of Montparnasse,
where he had been lodging, and carried it to his new home. The key
was now in his pocket, and for the first time he entered the place alone.
The window remained wide open; but it was still there--that depressing,
choking something that entered the