I counted twelve rungs going down, and then felt stone flags beneath my feet, although the walls on either side, as I explored them with my hands, were still of closely matched wood.  The passage, now high enough to permit of my standing erect, led toward the rear of the house, presenting no obstacle other than darkness, until I came up suddenly against a heavy wooden door completely barring further progress.  As near as I could figure I must be already directly beneath the kitchen, and close in against the south wall.  No sound reached me, however, from above, nor could I, with ear against the slight crack, distinguish any movement beyond the barrier.  Cautious fingering revealed closely matched hard wood, studded thickly with nail heads, but no keyhole or latch.  Secure in the feeling that no one else could be in this outer passage, and completely baffled, I ventured to strike a match.  The tiny yellow flame, ere it quickly flickered out in some mysterious draft, revealed an iron band to the left of the door, with slight protuberance, resembling the button of an electric-bell.  This was the only semblance to a lock, and I was in doubt whether it would prove an alarm, or some ingenuous [Transcriber’s note:  ingenious?] spring.  There was nothing for it, however, but to try the experiment, and face the result.

Almost convinced that the pressure of my finger would ring an electric bell, I drew my revolver, and crouched low, prepared for any emergency, as I pressed the metal button.  To my surprise and relief the only thing to occur was the slow opening of the door inward, a dim gleam of light becoming visible through the widening crack.  The movement was deliberate and noiseless, but I dropped upon hands and knees in the deepest remaining shadow and peered anxiously into the dimly revealed interior.  It was a basement room, half the width of the kitchen overhead, I should judge; the walls of crude masonry, the floor of brick, the ceiling, festooned by cobwebs, of rough-hewn beams.  The light, flickering and dim, came from a half-burned candle in an iron holder screwed against the wall, revealing a small table, two chairs, one without a back, and four narrow sleeping berths made of rough boards.  This was all, except a coat dangling from a beam, and a small hand-hatchet lying on the floor.  There was, in the instant I had to view these things, no semblance of movement, or suggestion of human presence.  Assured of this, although holding myself alert and ready, I slipped through the opening.  Even as I stood there, uncertain, and staring about, a sharp draught of air extinguished the candle, and I heard the snap of the lock as the door behind blew back into position.  About me was the black silence of a grave.

CHAPTER XIX

A CHAMBER OF HORROR