The Story of An Hour
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“I think I’ll go home now,” said Mrs. Stone.
“Don’t be silly,” said her friend, Miss Marlowe. “You’ve been here since half-past three.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Stone. She hesitated a moment, looking around the big, empty drawing room. Then she walked slowly across to the window and looked out at the street.
“What a lovely afternoon!” she said. “And look at that beautiful red car! It belongs to my next-door neighbor, Mr. Stapleton. Do you know him?”
“Oh yes,” said Miss Marlowe. “He’s an awful bore.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Mrs. Stone. “He’s always been nice to me.”
“But his wife—” began Miss Marlowe.
“His wife?” exclaimed Mrs. Stone. “Why, she’s perfectly charming. And what a pretty girl she is!”
Miss Marlowe nodded. “Very pretty,” she agreed.
Mrs. Stone turned back to the window. “She drives such a splendid car,” she remarked. “Look at that red color. What a pity they don’t let us drive our cars in London.”
Miss Marlowe shook her head. “London traffic isn’t safe for anyone,” she explained. “Not even for Mr. Stapleton himself, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, really?” said Mrs. Stone. “That’s too bad. But I suppose we should expect nothing better from our politicians. When I was young, there used to be quite a lot of fine old men in Parliament. Nowadays, there aren’t any. And there are hardly any women either. Oh dear, I wonder what will happen to us if they keep on like this. We may end up being ruled by foreigners.”
Miss Marlowe laughed. “Do you really think that’s likely to happen?” she asked. “I don’t. And besides, why should they? They’re all dead, you know. They couldn’t rule us if they wanted to.”
“Well, perhaps they won’t want to,” said Mrs. Stone. “But still—why take chances?”
There was a little silence. Mrs. Stone looked around the room again, wondering what to say next. Her eyes fell upon the clock on the mantelpiece.
“I wonder if he’s late,” she remarked. “He usually comes about four o’clock, but it’s nearly five now. Perhaps he didn’t get my message.”
She picked up the receiver of the telephone and dialed quickly.
“Stapleton residence,” said a woman’s voice. “Who is calling?”
“It’s Mrs. Stapleton,” said Mrs. Stone. “I was just wondering whether you’d got my letter. Did you?”
There was a short pause. “No,” said the woman’s voice. “We haven’t.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Mrs. Stone. “Didn’t you answer it?”
Another pause. “No,” repeated the other person’s voice. “I haven’t.”
Mrs. Stone put down the receiver. “Well, that’s that,” she said. “Now I shall have to wait till tomorrow.”
“I hope he gets your note soon,” said Miss Marlowe.
Mrs. Stone shrugged. “If not,” she said, “it can’t be helped. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
She glanced at the clock again. It was getting dark outside. “I suppose I ought to be going home,” she said.
“I think you should,” said Miss Marlowe. “I’m sure you must be tired after your long journey.”
Mrs. Stone smiled. “I’m never tired,” she said. “Besides, I enjoy staying with you.”
“Really?” said Miss Marlowe. “How interesting! I don’t believe you do.”
“Of course I do,” replied Mrs. Stone. “You’re such good company.”
They were silent for a moment. The clock chimed. “Excuse me a minute,” said Mrs. Stone. She went over to the fireplace and fished something out of one of the books on the shelf beside it.
“Here you are,” she said, handing Miss Marlowe the object. “I found it in one of these books.”
Miss Marlowe took it curiously. It was a small piece of paper.
“Thank you,” she said. “What is it?”
“Just a note from someone who’s coming to see me tonight,” explained Mrs. Stone. “She sent it through the post office.”
“A note?” queried Miss Marlowe. “From whom?”
“Nobody you know,” said Mrs. Stone. “Somebody I’ve known a long time.”
She hesitated, then added: “And she’s very fond of me.”
The two women stood together by the fire. There was another brief silence. Then Mrs. Stone spoke again. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” she asked.
“Dinner?” echoed Miss Marlowe. “But I thought—”
“You thought I lived alone,” interrupted Mrs. Stone. “Well, I don’t. At least, not completely.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have a housekeeper,” said Mrs. Stone. “Her name’s Elsie.”
“Elsie!” exclaimed Miss Marlowe. “I knew there had to be somebody else living here. But I hadn’t realized until now how many people were involved in running the household.”
“Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Stone. “Elsie only does the cooking and the cleaning. Nothing complicated or difficult. She doesn’t mind being left on her own. You won’t even notice her.”
“That sounds all right,” admitted Miss Marlowe. “I mean, it wouldn’t bother me to sit here talking to you for an hour or so.”
“So you will stay?” asked Mrs. Stone.
Miss Marlowe nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I would love to.”
Mrs. Stone smiled. “Good,” she said. “Then I’ll go and tell her. If you don’t mind waiting for us, we’ll bring supper along presently.”
“All right,” agreed Miss Marlowe. “Where shall I wait? In the drawing room?”
“Or you might prefer the library,” suggested Mrs. Stone. “I can show you the way.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Marlowe.
“Shall I come with you?” asked Mrs. Stone.
“No, thank you,” replied Miss Marlowe. “I’d rather not trouble you. It’s really quite close.”
“All right,” said Mrs. Stone. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Perhaps we could play some bridge after dinner,” suggested Miss Marlowe.
“Bridge?” echoed Mrs. Stone. “You don’t want to play bridge?”
“I didn’t say that,” protested Miss Marlowe. “Only—well, if you don’t care about playing, why did you offer to play with me?”
“Because I enjoy playing bridge,” answered Mrs. Stone. “It’s a game I’ve always enjoyed.”
“Oh,” said Miss Marlowe. “Very well.”
Mrs. Stone walked away toward the door. As she reached it she turned back. “Are you sure you won’t need my help with anything before I leave?” she inquired.
“No,” replied Miss Marlowe. “Nothing at all.”
Mrs. Stone nodded and went out into the hall. As she did so, Miss Marlowe noticed the note from which she had just taken the fragment. It was written on a thin strip of paper, folded several times. On one side of it were the words:
Dear Mrs. Stone
This evening when you are ready to retire upstairs I will come to you and give you what I promised last night.
With warmest regards
Yours ever
Ethel
Mrs. Stone came downstairs. “Is everything all right?” she called anxiously. “Did you find the library okay?”
“Yes,” answered Miss Marlowe. “Everything’s fine.”
Mrs. Stone relaxed. “All right,” she murmured. “I’m glad.”
***
The drawing room was dark, lit only by a couple of candles on the mantelpiece. The room smelled faintly of incense and tobacco smoke. A few books were stacked against the walls. The floor was covered by a thick layer of dust.
On the sofa sat Miss Marlowe. Beside her was a large leather suitcase. Mrs. Stone entered carrying a tray containing wine and glasses. She placed it down on the table beside the fireplace. “Wine?” she offered.
“Thank you,” said Miss Marlowe. “A glass, please.”
“Of course,” agreed Mrs. Stone. She poured two glasses of red wine and handed one to Miss Marlowe.
As Mrs. Stone took up a chair opposite the other woman, Miss Marlowe glanced around the room once more. “Nice place,” she commented.
“Not bad, is it?” agreed Mrs. Stone. “It used to belong to my husband.”
“Was he an architect too?” asked Miss Marlowe. “He must have been, judging from the size of this place.”
Mrs. Stone nodded. “My late husband was an architect,” she agreed. “His firm designed all these houses.”
“I suppose that explains the oddities,” observed Miss Marlowe. “Like the fact that each of them has a different look and feel to it.”
“They’re all built according to plans drawn up by my husband,” explained Mrs. Stone. “But each house is individually decorated in its own style. That’s why they look different.”
“And your husband was responsible for decorating each of them?” asked Miss Marlowe.
“Yes,” confirmed Mrs. Stone. “At least, until he died.”
“What happened?” asked Miss Marlowe.
“Well, he fell off his bicycle while riding home from work,” explained Mrs. Stone. “It was a terrible accident. He broke both his arms and both his legs.”
“How awful!” exclaimed Miss Marlowe.
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Stone. “It was very sad. But it meant he couldn’t continue working as an architect. And because he was our sole source of income, there was no choice but to sell the business and move here.”
“Where’s here?” asked Miss Marlowe.
“Here,” said Mrs. Stone. “In London.”
Miss Marlowe looked around the room again. “So where’s ‘here’ exactly?” she asked.
“Here,” repeated Mrs. Stone.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” pointed out Miss Marlowe.
Mrs. Stone shook her head. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. Then she added, “I hope you like my little gift.”
She opened the suitcase and pulled out a small package wrapped in white tissue paper. She unwrapped it carefully, revealing a small wooden box. Inside it was three small objects made of wood: two small dolls and a wooden crucifix. “There,” she announced. “Your present.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Marlowe. “Very nice.”
Mrs. Stone smiled. “I’m glad you think so.” She picked up her empty wineglass and stood up. “Shall we go upstairs then?” she suggested.
“Oh yes,” agreed Miss Marlowe. “Lead the way.”
Mrs. Stone led the way through the dimly lit hallway toward the staircase. They ascended the stairs slowly. At the top of the flight, Mrs. Stone stopped. “I’ll leave you in the drawing room,” she said. “I just need to make sure the front door’s locked.”
“Okay,” agreed Miss Marlowe. “Just be quick.”
Mrs. Stone left the room and went back downstairs. As she did so, she heard a sound behind her. She turned to see a figure standing at the foot of the stairs. It was wearing black clothes and a long black coat. It was holding a long silver sword.
“Who are you?” demanded Mrs. Stone.
The figure held up its hand. “I don’t want any trouble,” it warned. “Leave now or I’ll kill you.”
Mrs. Stone frowned. “Why should I do that?” she asked. “You can’t force me to go anywhere.”
“Maybe not,” agreed the figure. “But I can kill you if I choose to.”
Mrs. Stone stared at the figure. “Are you threatening me?” she asked. “If so, you’re wasting your time. I’ve never broken a law in my life.”
The figure nodded. “Good,” it replied. “Then perhaps you won’t mind if I kill you anyway.”
Mrs. Stone hesitated. The figure moved forward and raised its sword. “I warn you,” she said. “Don’t come any closer.”
The figure paused. “Are you going to run away?” it asked.
Mrs. Stone shook her head. “No,” she replied.
“Good,” agreed the figure. “Then stand still and watch what happens next.”
With those words, it swung the blade down. It hit Mrs. Stone on the chest with tremendous force. It knocked her backward, over the banister rail, and into the hall below.
***
Mrs. Stone lay motionless on the floor. Her eyes were closed, her face pale. Blood ran from a cut above her right eye.
The figure knelt beside her. It took hold of her throat with one hand, lifted her head, and pressed the point of its sword against her neck. It was only inches away from her jugular vein.
“Please don’t kill me,” whispered Mrs. Stone. “Not yet.”
“Sorry,” said the figure. “But I have to. You know why?”
Mrs. Stone shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Because,” said the figure. “You’re a witch.”
Mrs. Stone gasped. “What?” she cried. “A witch? What does that mean?”
“It means you’re a practitioner of witchcraft,” said the figure. “And witches must be killed.”
“But—but—how?” protested Mrs. Stone. “How am I a witch? How do you know that?”
“Because,” said the figure. “It’s obvious.”
Mrs. Stone shook her head. “It isn’t obvious,” she insisted. “I’ve never done anything wrong. I haven’t even been to church for years.”
The figure lowered its sword slightly. “Do you really believe that?” it asked.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Stone. “I really do.”
“Well, then,” said the figure. “Perhaps you’d better start believing something else too.”
It released Mrs. Stone’s throat and pushed her back onto the ground. “There’s no need to struggle,” it told her. “I won’t hurt you anymore. Just lie there quietly while I finish off what I started.”
It put the point of its sword against Mrs. Stone’s forehead and pushed hard. With a soft pop, the skull broke open. Mrs. Stone’s brain fell out of the hole and rolled across the floor. The body twitched briefly, but then stopped moving altogether.
The figure picked up the brain and placed it inside the empty skull. Then it wiped the blood away with a cloth and stood up. It looked around the room.
“This is interesting,” it remarked. “I wonder who this belongs to?”
It bent down and picked up a small black box. It opened it and examined the contents.
“Hmm,” it murmured. “I think these might be interesting as well.”
It took two of the three objects out of their box and laid them on the table.
“These look like they might be useful,” he commented.
He took out a third object and held it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. He glanced around the room again. “Where are the other two things?” he asked.
He couldn’t find them, so he walked through the house searching. In the end, he found them in his own bedroom. They had fallen under the bed when he pulled the covers back.
He carried all four objects into the living room. Then he turned and smiled at Mrs. Stone.
“Well,” he said. “That wasn’t very difficult after all, was it?”
He reached out and touched the dead woman’s cheek. “You see?” he added. “You can trust me. Now we can get on with the rest of our work.”
He took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and wrote on it:
Beware! Beware! Beware!
For there will be many more victims soon.
We will be watching you.
So beware!
We will catch you eventually.
He folded the note and put it inside the dead woman’s mouth. Then he stepped back and looked at the body. “She’s not going anywhere now,” he noted. “I’m glad about that. I hate leaving messes behind.”
He looked around once more to make sure everything was exactly how he wanted it. Satisfied, he nodded to himself. “Good,” he declared. “Now let’s go upstairs and do the same thing to Mr. Stone.”
The End