When Carson first noticed the sounds in his cellar, he ascribed them to
the rats. Later he began to hear the tales which were whispered by the
superstitious Polish mill workers in Derby Street regarding the first
occupant of the ancient house, Abigail Prinn. There was none living
today who could remember the diabolical old hag, but the morbid legends
which thrive in the "witch district" of Salem like rank weeds on a
neglected grave gave disturbing particulars of her activities, and were
unpleasantly explicit regarding the detestable sacrifices she was known
to have made to a worm-eater, crescent-horned image of dubious origin.
The oldsters still muttered of Abbie Prinn and her monstrous boasts that
she was high priestess of a fearfully potent god which dwelt deep in the
hills. Indeed, it was the old witch's reckless boasting which had led to
her abrupt and mysterious death in 1692, about the time of the famous
hangings on Gallows Hill. No one liked to talk about it, but
occasionally a toothless crone would mumble fearfully that the flames
could not burn her, for her whole body had taken on the peculiar
anesthesia of her witch-mark.
Abbie Prinn and her anomalous statue had long since vanished, but it was
still difficult to find tenants for her decrepit, gabled house, with its
overhanging second story and curious diamond-paned casement windows. The
house's evil notoriety had spread throughout Salem. Nothing had actually
happened there of recent years which might give rise to the inexplicable
tales, but those who rented the house had a habit of moving out hastily,
generally with vague and unsatisfactory explanations connected with the
rats.
And it was a rat which led Carson to the Witch Room. The squealing and
muffled pattering within the rotting walls had disturbed Carson more
than once during the nights of his first week in the house, which he had
rented to obtain the solitude that would enable him to complete a novel
for which his publishers had been asking—another light romance to add
to Carson's long string of popular successes. But it was not until some
time later that he began to entertain certain wildly fantastic surmises
regarding the intelligence of the rat that scurried from under his feet
in the dark hallway one evening.
The house had been wired for electricity, but the bulb in the hall was
small and gave a dim light. The rat was a misshapen, black shadow as it
darted a few feet away and paused, apparently watching him.
At another time Carson might have dismissed the animal with a
threatening gesture and returned to his work. But the traffic on Derby
Street had been unusually noisy, and he had found it difficult to
concentrate upon his novel. His nerves, for no apparent reason, were
taut; and somehow it seemed that the rat, watching just beyond his
reach, was eyeing him with sardonic amusement.
Smiling at the conceit, he took a few steps toward the rat, and it
rushed away to the cellar door, which he saw with surprize was ajar. He
must have neglected to close it the last time he had been in the cellar,
although he generally took care to keep the doors shut, for the ancient
house was drafty. The rat waited in the doorway.
Unreasonably annoyed, Carson hurried forward, sending the rat scurrying
down the stairway. He switched on the cellar light and observed the rat
in a corner. It watched him keenly out of glittering little eyes.
As he descended the stairs he could not help feeling that he was acting
like a fool. But his work had been tiring, and subconsciously he
welcomed any interruption. He moved across the cellar to the rat, seeing
with astonishment that the creature remained unmoving, staring at him. A
strange feeling of uneasiness began to grow within him. The rat was
acting abnormally, he felt; and the unwinking gaze of its cold
shoe-button eyes was somehow disturbing.
Then he laughed to himself, for the rat had suddenly whisked aside and
disappeared into a little hole in the cellar wall. Idly he scratched a
cross with his toe in the dirt before the burrow, deciding that he would
set a trap there in the morning.