At the age of forty, however, there came a change in his troubled life, when he met a girl with half a million in her own right, who consented to marry him, and who very soon succeeded in reducing his most messy existence into a state of comparative order and system.
Certain incidents, important and otherwise, of Jim's life would never have come to be told here but for the fact that in getting into his "messes" and out of them again he succeeded in drawing himself into the atmosphere of peculiar2 circumstances and strange happenings. He attracted to his path the curious adventures of life as unfailingly as meat attracts flies, and jam wasps3. It is to the meat and jam of his life, so to speak, that he owes his experiences; his after-life was all pudding, which attracts nothing but greedy children. With marriage the interest of his life ceased for all but one person, and his path became regular as the sun's instead of erratic4 as a comet's.
The first experience in order of time that he related to me shows that somewhere latent behind his disarranged nervous system there lay psychic5 perceptions of an uncommon6 order. About the age of twenty-two—I think after his second rustication—his father's purse and patience had equally given out, and Jim found himself stranded7 high and dry in a large American city. High and dry! And the only clothes that had no holes in them safely in the keeping of his uncle's wardrobe.
Careful reflection on a bench in one of the city parks led him to the conclusion that the only thing to do was to persuade the city editor of one of the daily journals that he possessed9 an observant mind and a ready pen, and that he could "do good work for your paper, sir, as a reporter." This, then, he did, standing10 at a most unnatural11 angle between the editor and the window to conceal12 the whereabouts of the holes.
"Guess we'll have to give you a week's trial," said the editor, who, ever on the lookout13 for good chance material, took on shoals of men in that way and retained on the average one man per shoal. Anyhow it gave Jim Shorthouse the wherewithal to sew up the holes and relieve his uncle's wardrobe of its burden.
Then he went to find living quarters; and in this proceeding14 his unique characteristics already referred to—what theosophists would call his Karma—began unmistakably to assert themselves, for it was in the house he eventually selected that this sad tale took place.
There are no "diggings" in American cities. The alternatives for small incomes are grim enough—rooms in a boarding-house where meals are served, or in a room-house where no meals are served—not even breakfast. Rich people live in palaces, of course, but Jim had nothing to do with "sich-like." His horizon was bounded by boarding-houses and room-houses; and, owing to the necessary irregularity of his meals and hours, he took the latter.
It was a large, gaunt-looking place in a side street, with dirty windows and a creaking iron gate, but the rooms were large, and the one he selected and paid for in advance was on the top floor. The landlady16 looked gaunt and dusty as the house, and quite as old. Her eyes were green and faded, and her features large.
"Waal," she twanged, with her electrifying17 Western drawl, "that's the room, if you like it, and that's the price I said. Now, if you want it, why, just say so; and if you don't, why, it don't hurt me any."
Jim wanted to shake her, but he feared the clouds of long-accumulated dust in her clothes, and as the price and size of the room suited him, he decided18 to take it.
"Anyone else on this floor?" he asked.
She looked at him queerly out of her faded eyes before she answered.
"None of my guests ever put such questions to me before," she said; "but I guess you're different. Why, there's no one at all but an old gent that's stayed here every bit of five years. He's over thar," pointing to the end of the passage.
"Ah! I see," said Shorthouse feebly. "So I'm alone up here?"
"Reckon you are, pretty near," she twanged out, ending the conversation abruptly19 by turning her back on her new "guest," and going slowly and deliberately20 downstairs.
The newspaper work kept Shorthouse out most of the night. Three times a week he got home at 1 a.m., and three times at 3 a.m. The room proved comfortable enough, and he paid for a second week. His unusual hours had so far prevented his meeting any inmates21 of the house, and not a sound had been heard from the "old gent" who shared the floor with him. It seemed a very quiet house.
One night, about the middle of the second week, he came home tired after a long day's work. The lamp that usually stood all night in the hall had burned itself out, and he had to stumble upstairs in the dark. He made considerable noise in doing so, but nobody seemed to be disturbed. The whole house was utterly22 quiet, and probably everybody was asleep. There were no lights under any of the doors. All was in darkness. It was after two o'clock.
After reading some English letters that had come during the day, and dipping for a few minutes into a book, he became drowsy23 and got ready for bed. Just as he was about to get in between the sheets, he stopped for a moment and listened. There rose in the night, as he did so, the sound of steps somewhere in the house below. Listening attentively24, he heard that it was somebody coming upstairs—a heavy tread, and the owner taking no pains to step quietly. On it came up the stairs, tramp, tramp, tramp—evidently the tread of a big man, and one in something of a hurry.
At once thoughts connected somehow with fire and police flashed through Jim's brain, but there were no sounds of voices with the steps, and he reflected in the same moment that it could only be the old gentleman keeping late hours and tumbling upstairs in the darkness. He was in the act of turning out the gas and stepping into bed, when the house resumed its former stillness by the footsteps suddenly coming to a dead stop immediately outside his own room.
With his hand on the gas, Shorthouse paused a moment before turning it out to see if the steps would go on again, when he was startled by a loud knocking on his door. Instantly, in obedience27 to a curious and unexplained instinct, he turned out the light, leaving himself and the room in total darkness.
He had scarcely taken a step across the room to open the door, when a voice from the other side of the wall, so close it almost sounded in his ear, exclaimed in German, "Is that you, father? Come in."
The speaker was a man in the next room, and the knocking, after all, had not been on his own door, but on that of the adjoining chamber28, which he had supposed to be vacant.
Almost before the man in the passage had time to answer in German, "Let me in at once," Jim heard someone cross the floor and unlock the door. Then it was slammed to with a bang, and there was audible the sound of footsteps about the room, and of chairs being drawn29 up to a table and knocking against furniture on the way. The men seemed wholly regardless of their neighbour's comfort, for they made noise enough to waken the dead.
"Serves me right for taking a room in such a cheap hole," reflected Jim in the darkness. "I wonder whom she's let the room to!"
The two rooms, the landlady had told him, were originally one. She had put up a thin partition—just a row of boards—to increase her income. The doors were adjacent, and only separated by the massive upright beam between them. When one was opened or shut the other rattled31.
With utter indifference32 to the comfort of the other sleepers33 in the house, the two Germans had meanwhile commenced to talk both at once and at the top of their voices. They talked emphatically, even angrily. The words "Father" and "Otto" were freely used. Shorthouse understood German, but as he stood listening for the first minute or two, an eavesdropper34 in spite of himself, it was difficult to make head or tail of the talk, for neither would give way to the other, and the jumble35 of guttural sounds and unfinished sentences was wholly unintelligible36. Then, very suddenly, both voices dropped together; and, after a moment's pause, the deep tones of one of them, who seemed to be the "father," said, with the utmost distinctness—
"You mean, Otto, that you refuse to get it?"
There was a sound of someone shuffling37 in the chair before the answer came. "I mean that I don't know how to get it. It is so much, father. It is too much. A part of it—"
"A part of it!" cried the other, with an angry oath, "a part of it, when ruin and disgrace are already in the house, is worse than useless. If you can get half you can get all, you wretched fool. Half-measures only damn all concerned."
"You told me last time—" began the other firmly, but was not allowed to finish. A succession of horrible oaths drowned his sentence, and the father went on, in a voice vibrating with anger—
"You know she will give you anything. You have only been married a few months. If you ask and give a plausible38 reason you can get all we want and more. You can ask it temporarily. All will be paid back. It will re-establish the firm, and she will never know what was done with it. With that amount, Otto, you know I can recoup all these terrible losses, and in less than a year all will be repaid. But without it. . . . You must get it, Otto. Hear me, you must. Am I to be arrested for the misuse39 of trust moneys? Is our honoured name to be cursed and spat40 on?" The old man choked and stammered41 in his anger and desperation.
Shorthouse stood shivering in the darkness and listening in spite of himself. The conversation had carried him along with it, and he had been for some reason afraid to let his neighbourhood be known. But at this point he realised that he had listened too long and that he must inform the two men that they could be overheard to every single syllable42. So he coughed loudly, and at the same time rattled the handle of his door. It seemed to have no effect, for the voices continued just as loudly as before, the son protesting and the father growing more and more angry. He coughed again persistently43, and also contrived44 purposely in the darkness to tumble against the partition, feeling the thin boards yield easily under his weight, and making a considerable noise in so doing. But the voices went on unconcernedly, and louder than ever. Could it be possible they had not heard?
By this time Jim was more concerned about his own sleep than the morality of overhearing the private scandals of his neighbours, and he went out into the passage and knocked smartly at their door. Instantly, as if by magic, the sounds ceased. Everything dropped into utter silence. There was no light under the door and not a whisper could be heard within. He knocked again, but received no answer.
"Gentlemen," he began at length, with his lips close to the keyhole and in German, "please do not talk so loud. I can overhear all you say in the next room. Besides, it is very late, and I wish to sleep."
He paused and listened, but no answer was forthcoming. He turned the handle and found the door was locked. Not a sound broke the stillness of the night except the faint swish of the wind over the skylight and the creaking of a board here and there in the house below. The cold air of a very early morning crept down the passage, and made him shiver. The silence of the house began to impress him disagreeably. He looked behind him and about him, hoping, and yet fearing, that something would break the stillness. The voices still seemed to ring on in his ears; but that sudden silence, when he knocked at the door, affected45 him far more unpleasantly than the voices, and put strange thoughts in his brain—thoughts he did not like or approve.
Moving stealthily from the door, he peered over the banisters into the space below. It was like a deep vault46 that might conceal in its shadows anything that was not good. It was not difficult to fancy he saw an indistinct moving to-and-fro below him. Was that a figure sitting on the stairs peering up obliquely47 at him out of hideous48 eyes? Was that a sound of whispering and shuffling down there in the dark halls and forsaken49 landings? Was it something more than the inarticulate murmur50 of the night?
The wind made an effort overhead, singing over the skylight, and the door behind him rattled and made him start. He turned to go back to his room, and the draught51 closed the door slowly in his face as if there were someone pressing against it from the other side. When he pushed it open and went in, a hundred shadowy forms seemed to dart52 swiftly and silently back to their corners and hiding-places. But in the adjoining room the sounds had entirely53 ceased, and Shorthouse soon crept into bed, and left the house with its inmates, waking or sleeping, to take care of themselves, while he entered the region of dreams and silence.
Next day, strong in the common sense that the sunlight brings, he determined54 to lodge55 a complaint against the noisy occupants of the next room and make the landlady request them to modify their voices at such late hours of the night and morning. But it so happened that she was not to be seen that day, and when he returned from the office at midnight it was, of course, too late.
Looking under the door as he came up to bed he noticed that there was no light, and concluded that the Germans were not in. So much the better. He went to sleep about one o'clock, fully56 decided that if they came up later and woke him with their horrible noises he would not rest till he had roused the landlady and made her reprove them with that authoritative57 twang, in which every word was like the lash25 of a metallic58 whip.
However, there proved to be no need for such drastic measures, for Shorthouse slumbered59 peacefully all night, and his dreams—chiefly of the fields of grain and flocks of sheep on the far-away farms of his father's estate—were permitted to run their fanciful course unbroken.
Two nights later, however, when he came home tired out, after a difficult day, and wet and blown about by one of the wickedest storms he had ever seen, his dreams—always of the fields and sheep—were not destined60 to be so undisturbed.
He had already dozed61 off in that delicious glow that follows the removal of wet clothes and the immediate26 snuggling under warm blankets, when his consciousness, hovering62 on the borderland between sleep and waking, was vaguely63 troubled by a sound that rose indistinctly from the depths of the house, and, between the gusts64 of wind and rain, reached his ears with an accompanying sense of uneasiness and discomfort65. It rose on the night air with some pretence66 of regularity15, dying away again in the roar of the wind to reassert itself distantly in the deep, brief hushes67 of the storm.
For a few minutes Jim's dreams were coloured only—tinged, as it were, by this impression of fear approaching from somewhere insensibly upon him. His consciousness, at first, refused to be drawn back from that enchanted68 region where it had wandered, and he did not immediately awaken69. But the nature of his dreams changed unpleasantly. He saw the sheep suddenly run huddled70 together, as though frightened by the neighbourhood of an enemy, while the fields of waving corn became agitated71 as though some monster were moving uncouthly72 among the crowded stalks. The sky grew dark, and in his dream an awful sound came somewhere from the clouds. It was in reality the sound downstairs growing more distinct.
Shorthouse shifted uneasily across the bed with something like a groan73 of distress74. The next minute he awoke, and found himself sitting straight up in bed—listening. Was it a nightmare? Had he been dreaming evil dreams, that his flesh crawled and the hair stirred on his head?
The room was dark and silent, but outside the wind howled dismally75 and drove the rain with repeated assaults against the rattling76 windows. How nice it would be—the thought flashed through his mind—if all winds, like the west wind, went down with the sun! They made such fiendish noises at night, like the crying of angry voices. In the daytime they had such a different sound. If only——
Hark! It was no dream after all, for the sound was momentarily growing louder, and its cause was coming up the stairs. He found himself speculating feebly what this cause might be, but the sound was still too indistinct to enable him to arrive at any definite conclusion.
The voice of a church clock striking two made itself heard above the wind. It was just about the hour when the Germans had commenced their performance three nights before. Shorthouse made up his mind that if they began it again he would not put up with it for very long. Yet he was already horribly conscious of the difficulty he would have of getting out of bed. The clothes were so warm and comforting against his back. The sound, still steadily77 coming nearer, had by this time become differentiated78 from the confused clamour of the elements, and had resolved itself into the footsteps of one or more persons.
"The Germans, hang 'em!" thought Jim. "But what on earth is the matter with me? I never felt so queer in all my life."
He was trembling all over, and felt as cold as though he were in a freezing atmosphere. His nerves were steady enough, and he felt no diminution79 of physical courage, but he was conscious of a curious sense of malaise and trepidation80, such as even the most vigorous men have been known to experience when in the first grip of some horrible and deadly disease. As the footsteps approached this feeling of weakness increased. He felt a strange lassitude creeping over him, a sort of exhaustion81, accompanied by a growing numbness82 in the extremities83, and a sensation of dreaminess in the head, as if perhaps the consciousness were leaving its accustomed seat in the brain and preparing to act on another plane. Yet, strange to say, as the vitality84 was slowly withdrawn85 from his body, his senses seemed to grow more acute.
Meanwhile the steps were already on the landing at the top of the stairs, and Shorthouse, still sitting upright in bed, heard a heavy body brush past his door and along the wall outside, almost immediately afterwards the loud knocking of someone's knuckles86 on the door of the adjoining room.
Instantly, though so far not a sound had proceeded from within, he heard, through the thin partition, a chair pushed back and a man quickly cross the floor and open the door.
"Ah! it's you," he heard in the son's voice. Had the fellow, then, been sitting silently in there all this time, waiting for his father's arrival? To Shorthouse it came not as a pleasant reflection by any means.
There was no answer to this dubious87 greeting, but the door was closed quickly, and then there was a sound as if a bag or parcel had been thrown on a wooden table and had slid some distance across it before stopping.
"What's that?" asked the son, with anxiety in his tone.
"You may know before I go," returned the other gruffly. Indeed his voice was more than gruff: it betrayed ill-suppressed passion.
Shorthouse was conscious of a strong desire to stop the conversation before it proceeded any further, but somehow or other his will was not equal to the task, and he could not get out of bed. The conversation went on, every tone and inflexion distinctly audible above the noise of the storm.
In a low voice the father continued. Jim missed some of the words at the beginning of the sentence. It ended with: " . . . but now they've all left, and I've managed to get up to you. You know what I've come for." There was distinct menace in his tone.
"Yes," returned the other; "I have been waiting."
"And the money?" asked the father impatiently.
No answer.
"You've had three days to get it in, and I've contrived to stave off the worst so far—but to-morrow is the end."
No answer.
"Speak, Otto! What have you got for me? Speak, my son; for God's sake, tell me."
There was a moment's silence, during which the old man's vibrating accents seemed to echo through the rooms. Then came in a low voice the answer—
"I have nothing."
"Otto!" cried the other with passion, "nothing!"
"I can get nothing," came almost in a whisper.
"You lie!" cried the other, in a half-stifled voice. "I swear you lie. Give me the money."
A chair was heard scraping along the floor. Evidently the men had been sitting over the table, and one of them had risen. Shorthouse heard the bag or parcel drawn across the table, and then a step as if one of the men was crossing to the door.
"Father, what's in that? I must know," said Otto, with the first signs of determination in his voice. There must have been an effort on the son's part to gain possession of the parcel in question, and on the father's to retain it, for between them it fell to the ground. A curious rattle30 followed its contact with the floor. Instantly there were sounds of a scuffle. The men were struggling for the possession of the box. The elder man with oaths, and blasphemous88 imprecations, the other with short gasps89 that betokened90 the strength of his efforts. It was of short duration, and the younger man had evidently won, for a minute later was heard his angry exclamation91.
"I knew it. Her jewels! You scoundrel, you shall never have them. It is a crime."
The elder man uttered a short, guttural laugh, which froze Jim's blood and made his skin creep. No word was spoken, and for the space of ten seconds there was a living silence. Then the air trembled with the sound of a thud, followed immediately by a groan and the crash of a heavy body falling over on to the table. A second later there was a lurching from the table on to the floor and against the partition that separated the rooms. The bed quivered an instant at the shock, but the unholy spell was lifted from his soul and Jim Shorthouse sprang out of bed and across the floor in a single bound. He knew that ghastly murder had been done—the murder by a father of his son.
With shaking fingers but a determined heart he lit the gas, and the first thing in which his eyes corroborated93 the evidence of his ears was the horrifying94 detail that the lower portion of the partition bulged95 unnaturally96 into his own room. The glaring paper with which it was covered had cracked under the tension and the boards beneath it bent97 inwards towards him. What hideous load was behind them, he shuddered98 to think.
All this he saw in less than a second. Since the final lurch92 against the wall not a sound had proceeded from the room, not even a groan or a foot-step. All was still but the howl of the wind, which to his ears had in it a note of triumphant99 horror.
Shorthouse was in the act of leaving the room to rouse the house and send for the police—in fact his hand was already on the door-knob—when something in the room arrested his attention. Out of the corner of his eyes he thought he caught sight of something moving. He was sure of it, and turning his eyes in the direction, he found he was not mistaken.
Something was creeping slowly towards him along the floor. It was something dark and serpentine100 in shape, and it came from the place where the partition bulged. He stooped down to examine it with feelings of intense horror and repugnance101, and he discovered that it was moving toward him from the other side of the wall. His eyes were fascinated, and for the moment he was unable to move. Silently, slowly, from side to side like a thick worm, it crawled forward into the room beneath his frightened eyes, until at length he could stand it no longer and stretched out his arm to touch it. But at the instant of contact he withdrew his hand with a suppressed scream. It was sluggish—and it was warm! and he saw that his fingers were stained with living crimson102.
A second more, and Shorthouse was out in the passage with his hand on the door of the next room. It was locked. He plunged103 forward with all his weight against it, and, the lock giving way, he fell headlong into a room that was pitch dark and very cold. In a moment he was on his feet again and trying to penetrate104 the blackness. Not a sound, not a movement. Not even the sense of a presence. It was empty, miserably105 empty!
Across the room he could trace the outline of a window with rain streaming down the outside, and the blurred106 lights of the city beyond. But the room was empty, appallingly107 empty; and so still. He stood there, cold as ice, staring, shivering listening. Suddenly there was a step behind him and a light flashed into the room, and when he turned quickly with his arm up as if to ward8 off a terrific blow he found himself face to face with the landlady. Instantly the reaction began to set in.
It was nearly three o'clock in the morning, and he was standing there with bare feet and striped pyjamas108 in a small room, which in the merciful light he perceived to be absolutely empty, carpetless, and without a stick of furniture, or even a window-blind. There he stood staring at the disagreeable landlady. And there she stood too, staring and silent, in a black wrapper, her head almost bald, her face white as chalk, shading a sputtering109 candle with one bony hand and peering over it at him with her blinking green eyes. She looked positively110 hideous.
"Waal?" she drawled at length, "I heard yer right enough. Guess you couldn't sleep! Or just prowlin' round a bit—is that it?"
The empty room, the absence of all traces of the recent tragedy, the silence, the hour, his striped pyjamas and bare feet—everything together combined to deprive him momentarily of speech. He stared at her blankly without a word.
"Waal?" clanked the awful voice.
"My dear woman," he burst out finally, "there's been something awful—" So far his desperation took him, but no farther. He positively stuck at the substantive111.
"Oh! there hasn't been nothin'," she said slowly still peering at him. "I reckon you've only seen and heard what the others did. I never can keep folks on this floor long. Most of 'em catch on sooner or later—that is, the ones that's kind of quick and sensitive. Only you being an Englishman I thought you wouldn't mind. Nothin' really happens; it's only thinkin' like."
Shorthouse was beside himself. He felt ready to pick her up and drop her over the banisters, candle and all.
"Look there," he said, pointing at her within an inch of her blinking eyes with the fingers that had touched the oozing112 blood; "look there, my good woman. Is that only thinking?"
She stared a minute, as if not knowing what he meant.
"I guess so," she said at length.
He followed her eyes, and to his amazement113 saw that his fingers were as white as usual, and quite free from the awful stain that had been there ten minutes before. There was no sign of blood. No amount of staring could bring it back. Had he gone out of his mind? Had his eyes and ears played such tricks with him? Had his senses become false and perverted114? He dashed past the landlady, out into the passage, and gained his own room in a couple of strides. Whew! . . . the partition no longer bulged. The paper was not torn. There was no creeping, crawling thing on the faded old carpet.
"It's all over now," drawled the metallic voice behind him. "I'm going to bed again."
He turned and saw the landlady slowly going downstairs again, still shading the candle with her hand and peering up at him from time to time as she moved. A black, ugly, unwholesome object, he thought, as she disappeared into the darkness below, and the last flicker115 of her candle threw a queer-shaped shadow along the wall and over the ceiling.
Without hesitating a moment, Shorthouse threw himself into his clothes and went out of the house. He preferred the storm to the horrors of that top floor, and he walked the streets till daylight. In the evening he told the landlady he would leave next day, in spite of her assurances that nothing more would happen.
"It never comes back," she said—"that is, not after he's killed."
"Waal, it aren't my show," she drawled. "I'm no spirit medium. You take chances. Some'll sleep right along and never hear nothin'. Others, like yourself, are different and get the whole thing."
"Who's the old gentleman?—does he hear it?" asked Jim.
"There's no old gentleman at all," she answered coolly. "I just told you that to make you feel easy like in case you did hear anythin'. You were all alone on the floor."
"Say now," she went on, after a pause in which Shorthouse could think of nothing to say but unpublishable things, "say now, do tell, did you feel sort of cold when the show was on, sort of tired and weak, I mean, as if you might be going to die?"
"Waal, but He won't tell," she drawled out. "Only I was wonderin' how you really did feel, because the man who had that room last was found one morning in bed—"
"In bed?"
"He was dead. He was the one before you. Oh! You don't need to get rattled so. You're all right. And it all really happened, they do say. This house used to be a private residence some twenty-five years ago, and a German family of the name of Steinhardt lived here. They had a big business in Wall Street, and stood 'way up in things."
"Ah!" said her listener.
"Oh yes, they did, right at the top, till one fine day it all bust119 and the old man skipped with the boodle—"
"Skipped with the boodle?"
"That's so," she said; "got clear away with all the money, and the son was found dead in his house, committed soocide it was thought. Though there was some as said he couldn't have stabbed himself and fallen in that position. They said he was murdered. The father died in prison. They tried to fasten the murder on him, but there was no motive120, or no evidence, or no somethin'. I forget now."
"Very pretty," said Shorthouse.
"I'll show you somethin' mighty121 queer any-ways," she drawled, "if you'll come upstairs a minute. I've heard the steps and voices lots of times; they don't pheaze me any. I'd just as lief hear so many dogs barkin'. You'll find the whole story in the newspapers if you look it up—not what goes on here, but the story of the Germans. My house would be ruined if they told all, and I'd sue for damages."
They reached the bedroom, and the woman went in and pulled up the edge of the carpet where Shorthouse had seen the blood soaking in the previous night.
"Look thar, if you feel like it," said the old hag. Stooping down, he saw a dark, dull stain in the boards that corresponded exactly to the shape and position of the blood as he had seen it.
That night he slept in a hotel, and the following day sought new quarters. In the newspapers on file in his office after a long search he found twenty years back the detailed122 story, substantially as the woman had said, of Steinhardt & Co.'s failure, the absconding123 and subsequent arrest of the senior partner, and the suicide, or murder, of his son Otto. The landlady's room-house had formerly124 been their private residence.
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1
rusticated
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| v.罚（大学生）暂时停学离校( rusticate的过去式和过去分词 )；在农村定居 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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13
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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14
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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15
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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16
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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17
electrifying
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| v.使电气化( electrify的现在分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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18
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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19
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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20
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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21
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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22
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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23
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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24
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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25
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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26
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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27
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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28
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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29
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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30
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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31
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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32
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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33
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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34
eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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35
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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36
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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37
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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38
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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39
misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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40
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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41
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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43
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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44
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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45
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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46
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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47
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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48
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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49
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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50
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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51
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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52
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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53
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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54
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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55
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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56
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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57
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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58
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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59
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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61
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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63
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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64
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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65
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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66
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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67
hushes
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| n.安静，寂静( hush的名词复数 ) | |
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68
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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69
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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70
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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71
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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72
uncouthly
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73
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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74
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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75
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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76
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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77
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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78
differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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79
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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80
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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81
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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82
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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83
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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84
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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85
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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86
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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87
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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88
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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89
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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90
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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92
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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93
corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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94
horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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95
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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96
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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97
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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98
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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99
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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100
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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101
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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102
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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103
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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104
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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105
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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106
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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107
appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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108
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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109
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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110
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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111
substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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112
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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113
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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114
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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115
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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116
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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117
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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118
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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119
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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120
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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121
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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122
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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123
absconding
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的现在分词 ) | |
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124
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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