THE smash must have been terrific. When the bell rang I picked my way through the ruck, but we all "bunched" again in the back straight. I remember yelling at Baxendale, who was cutting me in too close, but that is my last hazy recollection. These things happen too suddenly to admit of much speculation. . . . After ages of blackness a faint haze, like the shimmer of a sea fog, began to gather, at first dimly, then as the gradual lifting of a heavy curtain. Small globes of yellow light floated slowly across my eyeballs, and a dull aching at the back of the head throbbed incessantly with the regularity of a machine. It was in this manner that I became aware of the House in the Wood. When I opened my eyes I was lying just in front of it with my machine on the ground beside me. There was nothing striking about it at first glance except, perhaps, its isolated position in the thick of the forest. The pain in my head was still throbbing violently, whilst myriads of fiery sparks chased each other across my eyes, and when I sat up a keen, driving rain made itself felt with more force than politeness. Rising slowly to my feet in the darkness I hobbled painfully towards the house, and somewhat doubtfully and hesitatingly knocked at the door. After waiting several minutes with no result I knocked a second time, a trifle impatiently. But there was no answer — no sound save the swish of rain on the sodden grass, and the steady "drip, drip" of water from the silent eaves. The house stood dark and grim, and even in my miserable state its forbidding aspect caused a strange chill to come over me. But I thought what a fool I was to stop there in the wet while there was a roof so near to shelter me, and decided that, empty or inhabited, I would find an entrance somewhere.

I KNOCKED A SECOND TIME

      The back door hung loose on a broken hinge — sure sign, thought I, of the place being uninhabited. Yet even on the threshold I drew back and hesitated. You all know how a house that has long been empty has an indefinite air of dampness about it. Well, this same peculiarity was apparent in a more pronounced degree than I had ever experienced before. Twice I looked at the black aperture of the doorway, and twice I shrank away with an indescribable eerie feeling, till with a sudden gust of petulance at my qualms, I pulled myself together and entered.

      On striking a match I found myself in what must evidently have been a kitchen at one period of its existence, for the peculiar stove, the shelves and cupboards, all tended to confirm this belief. But what I was most glad to find was an old candle-end lying on the mantelshelf, amidst the thick dust which encrusted everything. With something like a gulp of relief I seized it, and provided myself with a light sufficient to enable me to explore my strange quarters.

      Whoever had been the inhabitants I discerned unmistakable signs of a hasty departure at every step. It almost seemed as if something had suddenly frightened them out of their home, for on all sides chairs, tables, and other articles of furniture lay about in indescribable confusion. In one room that I entered the remains of a meal lay spread out upon the table, but the edibles, whatever they may have been, had long since mouldered away, and even the knives and forks were red with rust. Upstairs the same state of things prevailed — the very beds were tumbled and tossed as though they had been slept in only the night before. A certain repugnance or squeamishness — call it what you will — prevented me, ill as I was, from lying down upon any of the beds; so I continued my investigation of the house.

      Few men are entirely devoid of all suspicion or fear of the supernatural, and, like a child in the dark, I caught myself starting at any chance sound — the creaking of the stairs (which certainly creaked abominably), the drip of the rain, or the tapping of the branches against one of the windows sufficing to send my heart into my mouth in an instant. My nerves had worked themselves up to this pitch when, in fearfully entering a dark room on the top floor, my foot caught in something and flung me to the ground, the candle was jerked out of my hand, rolled on the floor, and went out, leaving me in darkness.

      Then from out that pitchy blackness there loomed a Form — a huge squat Shape with long tentacles. It was not human. It was not that of any known animal so far as I could judge. For a second my brain refused to grasp what the Thing might be; and then the horror of it took hold of me and I turned sick and chill, unable to move a limb to save myself. The huddled, ungainly body, the long. hideous furry tentacles, the baleful eyes shining with a lurid gleam, slowly reared themselves until the shape of a monstrous Spider stood out against the darkness of the room. Slowly, and with diabolical stealthiness, the Horror drew nearer to where I lay; and then suddenly the spell of inactivity which was laid upon me was broken, and with an awful qualm I scrambled to my feet and tore for my life at a break-neck pace down the creaking staircase. As I flew I fancied I heard the soft "pad, pad" of furry feet on the stairs coming after me. Down through the lower hall, out through the open door I rushed, ridden and spurred on by the liveliest fear.

"Flung head over heels!"

      My breath came in short, quick gasps, and my feet caught in tangled weeds and branches as I reached the spot where my cycle lay on the grass. In desperate haste, and not daring to look behind for fear of what might be close upon me. I snatched it up, vaulted into the saddle, and pedalled for dear life. The path was a mere foot-way, and all the time the soft "pad, pad" of the Spider's feet sounded in my ears.

      But human nature was fast giving in — my limbs refused to work at the pace, and just as I felt the Thing a yard behind my back, my front wheel struck the trunk of a fallen tree, and I was flung head over heels to the ground. Immediately the Pursuing Horror hurled itself upon me and the glistening fangs of the Spider fastened upon my throat.

*       *      *

      "I think he will do, now, nurse. Keep him quiet for the present — but there is no more danger of brain fever."

      "You think, then, all danger is over now?"

      "Oh, yes; the fracture is mending nicely; these cycle racers have as many lives as a cat!"

      I opened my eyes stupidly.

      "What is this place?" I asked, wonderingly.

      A nurse in a trim white apron and cap leaned over me.

      "Hush! you mustn't talk yet. You are in the hospital — have been here ever since you fell in the race for the Palmerstown Cup — a week ago yesterday."

      "But the Spider?" I insisted, with an involuntary shudder.

      The nurse smoothed my pillows.

      "You have been raving about a Spider for a long time. There is no Spider. Try and go to sleep now, and we will soon have you well again."

      But all the same I feel that what I saw in the house in the wood is all too real for a dream. And in proof of my assertion I have two livid scars in my throat that will remain with me all the days of my life. The doctor says he can't imagine how I got them.

      That is the end of my story, and little more remains to be said. But if any of you, lost at night in the wood, chance upon a grim, old-fashioned, and deserted house in amongst the trees, with dirt-encrusted windows and gables, and a musty air of neglect pervading it, you had best take my advice and leave it to itself, for mayhap it holds a tenant who will brook no interference, and in that case things might be made awkward for the intruder.