“Yes, ma'am,” Mary agreed, “she's sure a wonder at cleaning, that Sara. She's straightened out our kitchen closet somethin' wonderful, miss.”
“She has?” I wondered if Sara, too, had discovered that queer opening in the back of the closet. I had almost forgotten it, but now I decided, absurd as such action probably was, to investigate the black hole into which I had fallen when I tried to move the lawn roller.
I chose a time when Sara Lorrence was out of the kitchen, cutting lettuces in the kitchen-garden. For several minutes I watched her broad, well-corseted body at its task, then, singing softly to myself,--for some reason I had a feeling that I was in danger,--I walked across the clean board floor and stepped into the closet to which my attention had first been drawn by Mary. It was indeed a renovated spot, sweet and garnished like the abode of devils in the parable; pots scoured and arranged on shelves, rubbish cleared out, the lawn-mower removed, the roller taken to some more appropriate place. But it was, in its further recesses, as dark as ever. I moved in, bending down my head and feeling before me with my hand. My fingers came presently against a wall. I felt about, in front, on either side, up and down; there was no break anywhere. Either I had imagined an opening or my hole had been boarded up.
I went out, lighted a candle, and returned. The closet was entirely normal,--just a kitchen closet with a sloping roof; it lay under the back stairs, one small, narrow wall, and three high, wide ones. The low, narrow wall stood where I had imagined my hole. I went close and examined it by the light of my candle. There was only one peculiarity about this wall; it had a temporary look, and was made of odd, old boards, which, it seemed to me, showed signs of recent workmanship. Perhaps Henry had made repairs. I blew out my candle and stepped from the closet.
Sara had come back from the garden. She greeted my appearance with a low, quavering cry of fear. “Oh, my God!” Then, recovering herself, though her large face remained ashen, “Excuse me, ma'am,” she said timidly, “I wasn't expectin' to see you there”--and she added incomprehensibly--“_not in the daytime_, ma'am.”
Now, for some reason, these words gave me the most horrible chill of fear. My mind simply turned away from them. I could not question Sara of their meaning. Subconsciously, I must have refused to understand them. It is always difficult to describe such psychological phenomena, but this is one that I am sure many people have experienced. It is akin to the paralysis which attacks one in frightening dreams and sometimes in real life, and prevents escape. The sort of shock it gave me absolutely forbade my taking any notice of it. I spoke to Sara in a strained, hard voice.