The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (black female authors txt) 📗

Hobart spoke up.

“What is it, Chick? I think I know what you mean. The old boy was honest?”

“Exactly. He had been a scholar all his life. He taught ethics. He believed in right. He practised his creed. When he came to the crucial experiment he found himself dealing with a rogue. The Rhamda helped him just so far; but once he had the professor in his power it was not his purpose to release him until he was secure of the Blind Spot.”

“I see,” I spoke. “The man is a villain. I think we can handle him.”

But Watson shook his head.

“That's just it, Harry! The man! If he were a man I could have handled him in short order. That's what I thought at first. Don't make any mistake. Don't try violence. That's the whole crux of the difficulty. If he were only a man! Unfortunately, he is not.”

“Not a man!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? Then, what is he?”

“He is a phantom.”

I glanced at Hobart and caught his eye. Hobart believed him! The poor pallid face of Watson, the athlete; there was nothing left to him but his soul! I shall not forget Watson as he sat there, his lean, long fingers grasping the brandy glass, his eyes burning and his life holding back from the pit through sheer will and courage. Would I come to this? Would I have the strength to measure up to his standard?

Hobart broke the tension.

“Chick's right. There is something in it, Harry. Not all the secrets of the universe have been unlocked by any means. Now, Chick, about details. Have you any data—any notes?”

Watson rose. I could see he was grateful.

“You believe me, don't you, Hobart? It is good. I had hoped to find someone, and I found you two. Harry, remember what I have told you. Hold the ring. You take my place. Whatever happens, stick out to the end. You have Hobart here to help you. Now just a minute. The library is here; you can look over my books. I shall return in a moment.”

He stepped out into the hall; we could hear his weary feet dragging down the hallway—a hollow sound and a bit uncanny. Somehow my mind rambled back to that account I had read in the newspaper—Jerome's story—“Like weary bones dragging slippers.” And the old lady. Who was she? Why was everyone in this house pulled down to exhaustion—the words of the old lady, I could almost hear them; the dank air murmuring their recollection. “Now there are two. Now there are two!”

“What's the matter, Harry?”

Perhaps I was frightened. I do not know. I looked around. The sound of Watson's footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of the building coming toward us.

“Nothing! Only—damn this place, Hobart. Don't you notice it? It's enough to eat your heart out.”

“Rather interesting,” said Hobart. It was too interesting for me. I stepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles. Sanskrit and Greek; German and French—the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza, a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics that was as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening. As Babel? Over my shoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous, fearful—“Now there are two. Now there are two.” My heart gave a fearful leap. “Soon there will be three! Soon—”

I turned suddenly about. I had a fearful thought. I looked at Hobart. A strange, insidious fear clutched at me. Was the thought intrinsic? If not, where had it come from? Three? I strained my ears to hear Watson's footsteps. He was in the back part of the building. I must have some air.

“I'm going to open the door, Hobart,” I spoke. “The front door, and look out into the street.”

“Don't blame you much. Feel a bit that way myself. About time for Dr. Higgins. Here comes Chick again. Take a look outside and see if the doc is coming.”

I opened the door and looked out into the dripping fog bank. What a pair of fools we were! We both knew it, and we were both seeking an excuse. In the next room through the curtains I could see the weak form of Watson; he was bearing a light.

Suddenly the light went out.

I was at high tension; the mere fact of the light was nothing, but it meant a world at that moment—a strange sound—a struggle—then the words of Watson—Chick Watson's:

“Harry! Harry! Hobart! Harry! Come here! It's the Blind Spot!”

It was in the next room. The despair of that call is unforgettable, like that of one suddenly falling into space. Then the light dropped to the floor. I could see the outlines of his figure and a weird, single string of incandescence. Hobart turned and I leaped. It was a blur, the form of a man melting into nothing. I sprang into the room, tearing down the curtains. Hobart was on top of me. But we were too late. I could feel the vibrancy of something uncanny as I rushed across the space intervening. Through my mind darted the thrill of terror. It had come suddenly, and in climax. It was over before it had commenced. The light had gone out. Only by the gleam from the other room could we make out each others' faces. The air was vibrant, magnetic. There was no Watson. But we could hear his voice. Dim and fearful, coming down the corridors of time.

“Hold that ring, Harry! Hold that ring!” Then the faint despair out of the weary distance, faint, but a whole volume:

“The Blind Spot!”

It was over as quickly as that. The whole thing climaxed into an instant. It is difficult to describe. One cannot always analyse sensations. Mine, I am afraid, were muddled. A thousand insistent thoughts clashed through my brain. Horror, wonder, doubt! I have only one persistent and predominating recollection. The old lady! I could almost feel her coming out of the shadows. There was sadness and pity; out of the stillness and the corners. What had been the dirge of her sorrow?