# Weird Tales/Volume 11/Issue 2/The Ghost-Table

* The Ghost Table by Elliot O'Donnell
* “Yvonne’s nails sank into my arm, waking me very thoroughly.”
YVONNE has the devil’s own taste for the odd and curious, so that a gift truly pleasing to her involves an assault on my imagination more than on the bankroll. And, as usual, the day following was our wedding anniversary; time had once again slipped up on me, and I was totally unprepared to pay the day its honors in the shape of jade necklaces, Japanese lacquer, or other bit of grotesque loveliness wherewith she loved to adorn her person or our already crowded apartment. Heaven help us, but why couldn’t the girl let a diamond tiara or a bucket of Burmese sapphires suffice, instead of craving outlandish trifles the pursuit of which always drives me at a pace just three jumps ahead of the madhouse?
I prowled about, stalking the perfect gift which would write another chapter on how to be happy with a woman of quaint tastes, and envying those fortunate lads whose problems were solved with cobra-skin shoes, or two ounces of silk and lace, or a new coupé. Despair prowled with me.
And then——
I never did know what heaven-sent hunch prompted me to enter that second-hand furniture store in whose farthest comer I recognized at a glance the perfect gift for Yvonne. Anyway, the longer I looked, the better I liked it. What a table! Long, narrow, low; its outlandish, foreign ​lines carved in a dark wood whose dusky, soft luster reminded me of the deep richness of a pair of cordovan hoots the old colonel used to wear when the Fifteenth paraded in Rizal.
"I knew you'd fancy it," exclaimed the shopman, as he removed its burden of books and dusted the top. "Only fifteen guineas. No veneer there; solid teak," he lied.
It wasn't teak; of that I was sure. It reminded me rather of that iron-hard and iron-heavy wood from Mindanao, more or less properly called Philippine ebony.
"Wonderful workmanship," continued the shopkeeper. "Look at those legs, sir."
They were wonderful: exquisitely fashioned, curving slightly outward and ending in feet fashioned to resemble the paws of a beast of prey— savage, pitiless claws whose realism made me for a moment wonder why the table was not confined in a cage.
More odd than the table itself was the heavy chain that secured one leg to a massive ring in the floor.
"Fifteen guineas," I reflected. Then, to the dealer: "What the devil! Do you chain it to keep it from walking away? For it's certainly too heavy to steal."
The dealer started, coughed, flushed. My remark had reminded him of what in his enthusiasm he had doubtless forgotten: that tables are not usually shackled to the floor.
"There were two or three attempts made to steal this very table from my window," he began, looking very foolish. "It's no end an attractive piece. And these collectors, you know—begging your pardon, sir, but you yourself might be tempted——"
Plainly the man was improvising. The poor fellow probably had persecution delusions, or something of the kind, and felt a bit wooden at having me notice the evidence thereof.
The more I looked at that table and its graceful, feline curves——
"Fifteen guineas? . . . How about ten, cash? And"—I paused, then shot it to him—"and how about a bill of sale with this curious table which has to be chained to the floor in the most obscure comer of your shop?"
That sunk him!
"Very good, sir. Yes, sir. And I can give you a bill of sale. I'm a reputable dealer, sir."
"Not so bad," I congratulated myself, as I left the shop with a bill of sale. "Perhaps it isn't stolen property; but there certainly is something wrong with its past . . . though I care not a hoot in a hailstorm," I concluded, as I pictured Yvonne's ecstasies at that pagan table with its savage claws, curiously carved legs, and catlike grace. If the personality of a piece of furniture could grow on me in such a short while, her temperamental majesty would undoubtedly be thrilled from her toenails to her eyebrows.
True to his promise, the dealer delivered the table that very afternoon, shortly after I reached home and told Yvonne of my discovery. The lift as usual was out of order: so I was not surprized to note that the two men who brought the table to our apartment on the third floor were somewhat the worse for wear. They set it in the middle of the drawing-room as though it had been a red-hot rock, and edged away front it a pace or two.
"It's heavy as a battleship," I remarked, hefting it.
No wonder the men were exhausted; that massive table resisted my grip as though its claws had sunk into the floor. "Heavy as a battleship?" repeated one of the porters. "And that's only 'alf of it. Thank you, sir."
​Pocketing the shilling I handed him, the porter and his companion departed, and seemed pleased at the opportunity. I rather wondered that they spared me the garrulity I might have expected of their efforts to fritter away ten minutes of their employer’s time, delaying their return to the shop and further duty.
"Oh, Val, what a perfectly marvelous table! I never saw anything like it——"
If I'd walked in with the pagoda of Shwei-dagon, she couldn't have been more enthusiastic. Her sister Annie, who was visiting us at the time, was equally pleased, though not quite so frenzied in her approval. I thoroughly enjoyed their comments on the table, feeling very much the conquistador displaying the plunder of a new world; and after the first five minutes of their fanfare of ecstasy, I wondered how I had ever in the presence of such beauty contrived to beat the price down five guineas . . . about twenty-five dollars, real money. And thus I gave little thought to the strange conduct of Goole, our collie, who, as the porters entered with the table, growled, and fled from the room, whining.
"'Vonne, it's lovely . . . and so odd," remarked Annie, as Yvonne with a final caress broke away from me and set to work dusting the lustrous tabletop. "It's positively uncanny how anything of wood can be so lifelike. I’m almost afraid to turn my back to it."
"And Val calls me temperamental!" jeered Yvonne.
But it does remind me of some beast of prey," insisted Annie. "Why, even the wood has leopard markings——"
"Stupid!" I protested; "leopards are spotted, not striped."
And then for the first time I noted that the top, when viewed from a certain angle, did have the faintest, shadowy suggestion of tiger stripes which very oddly gave it the appearance of having a slightly convex surface.
"You two will be the death of me!" laughed Yvonne. "Zebras are just as striped, and they're nothing but sport-model jackasses!"
And that settled the discussion.
That night, some time after we had gone to bed, Yvonne woke me . . . or thought she did.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered.
I had been hearing it for some time, and for some time had been wondering whether an unreasonable amount of Paul Whitby's Bacardi punch and three Patargas Coronas in a row could have made me hear that scarcely perceptible but persistent purring which had gradually become a dull thump-thump.
"Do I hear what?" I contrived to mutter sleepily.
"That awful thumping."
And Yvonne's nails sank into my arm, waking me very thoroughly. It was all rather disturbing. Things were becoming involved: for Yvonne hadn't smoked even one of those Patargas, and scarcely tasted that potent, aromatic punch; and she too was hearing what had now become the heavy tramping of a wooden colossus striving to tread stealthily across strange territory.
"Burglars!” she gasped. "Do go to the 'phone and call the police."
"Police be damned! By the time the operator makes the connection and I manage to say 'Are you there?' in the proper mumble, I'll be slugged and the house looted. Anyway, I think it's a pile-driver working on that building just around the corner——"
"You would!" sneered Yvonne. "Oh——"
Good Lord! I couldn't laugh that off: from the drawing-room came the sound of a regiment of cavalry ​charging over a woodpile, which didn't inspire me to investigate before dawn.
"Maybe he was right about that table. Someone's trying to steal it——
And that settled it: if I let anyone get away with Yvonne's precious table, life with her would be unbearable for years to come.
"Bunk!" I protested; and then piled out and dug a service .45 out of the dresser.
Goole's whines didn't add to my peace of mind.
But I slunk down the hall, by no means comforted by that crashing and clattering in the drawing-room, accented by the rattle of andirons and the tinkle of shattering glass. I hugged the wall, creeping through the darkness toward the riot. At the entrance of the drawing-room——
"Stick 'em up, and be quick about it!" I growled as savagely as my nerves permitted, and snapped on the light. No one stuck 'em up. No one was there. The ensuing silence was all the more awful for having come out of such a terrific din.
I still don’t know whether my relief exceeded my wonder: relief at not having to shoot it out against Lord knows what odds; and wonder at the dead, heavy silence that overwhelmed that fearful clattering and thumping the instant I snapped on the lights.
Goole whined dolorously at the farther end of the hall.
The furniture was a sight: chairs upset, the what-not thrown on the sofa with two of its legs broken, the fire irons scattered about on the hearth; and in one comer of the room, some distance from where we had placed it, was the newly purchased table. It seemed that someone had given it a terrific push which had sent it skating across the polished floor only to halt when a small Kurdish rug which lay in its path had become entangled with those fierce claws and brought it to a stop.
I shivered as I regarded that long, narrow, faintly banded and slightly convex top, and those out-curved legs and predatory claws glistening silkily under the drawing-room lights. It reminded me of some beast of prey poised to spring. And then I returned to tell Yvonne that all was clear as far as I could determine.
Yvonne was incredulous, and simply couldn’t believe that the creators of the disturbance had vanished so mysteriously; but a search of the house convinced her. And then she followed me on my return to the drawing-room to view the battlefield. Still not entirely convinced of the departure of the intruders, she sought to take Goole with us. But Goole wisely took cover beneath our bed, all the while alternating snarls with terrified whines.
And then Annie, awakened by the height of the disturbance, finally ventured out of her room, joining us as we went to take another look at the upset drawing-room. She was entirely in favor of leaving the house and spending the rest of the night at a hotel.
"Don't be stupid," I chided. "I've searched the entire house and tried every door. There's not a sign of anyone's having entered or left." And, clutching at any opportunity to laugh it off, I continued, blaming the tumult on Yvonne's Angora cat: "Look! The window is slightly open. Probably Miggles was entertaining a few playmates, and escaped——"
"Now I'll tell one," retorted Annie. "Miggles would of course have moved that heavy table and wrapped a rug about its legs."
That should have finished me, but I came up for more, mentioning the heavy chains that had shackled the table to the floor of the furniture store.
​"I will admit," I improvised, "that this may be one of those odd and precious pieces that some collector covets; and by terrorizing the dealer, he hopes to beat down the price . . . only I came along and crabbed the game, so I'm getting a taste of some collector's schrechlichkeit. . . ."
Rather good, what? I thought so; and Annie didn't argue. Yvonne was thrilled at the glittering notion. And with peace once more restored, we sought what little sleep could be salvaged from the remains of the night.
Yvonne spent a considerable portion of the following day in cleaning and polishing her prize; and when a number of her friends came in to tea, they went into raptures over it, especially over its feet and legs, which took their fancy enormously. Yvonne, strutting her table as though she herself had carved it, spoke of the faint tiger markings and the almost imperceptible convexity of the top; and then she abruptly changed the subject, for not a trace of either peculiarity was visible. Strange, very strange; but perhaps those oddities were brought out only by artificial light—those, and other oddities, I found myself thinking, in spite of myself.
"I can't believe those claws are wooden," remarked one of the ladies from Glebe Place, as she bent down to examine them. "So very lifelike, and so beautifully shaped, and so dreadfully sharp and cruel. One can imagine them tearing and rending one to pieces."
"How fantastic!"
Yvonne laughed. But I caught a troubled light in her eyes.
That night before going to bed we moved the table very carefully into one corner of the drawing-room, locked the door, and took out the key. Being very tired, we were soon asleep.
But my sleep was troubled. A solemn, deep-toned purring rolled in my ears, impressing itself on my sleep, and finally increasing to a pitch that woke me from my troubled half-sleep. Then, as before, came that dull thump-thump as of some wooden monster seeking to advance stealthily.
"Good Lord, again?" I groaned wearily.
And then——
A crashing, splintering, tinkling; the fearful screech of a small beast in mortal agony.
Annie burst into our room.
Again that scream of anguish.
And I repeated last night’s ritual, slinking down the hall, pistol in hand. The floor and walls trembled under that horrible thumping and pounding; but I finally did set the key in place, turned it——
As I reached in for the switch, a terrific crash against the door-jamb nearly knocked me from my feet. I opened up with the .45; and at the same instant, with my left hand, found the switch.
Silence. Deathly, oppressive. The hard, seasoned edge of the table had sunk deep into the softer wood of the door-jamb. But this time no Kurdish rug was wrapped about the legs of the table. Those feet—beautifully carved feet with exquisite claws—gleamed bloodily; and beneath them, pounded to shreds, mashed into the floor by that hardwood beast of prey, was Miggles, the cat whose mortal screams had awakened me.
Poor little kitten! We'd locked her in with that awful table.
Yvonne passed out then and there. I carried her to our bedroom and, leaving Annie to apply a few restoratives, returned to patch up some semblance of order. Believe me or not, it did take a bit of nerve to return to that fiend-ridden drawing-room.
I had scarcely entered when there came a pounding on our door, and ​someone demanding entrance in the name of the law, or the King, or whoever the appropriate person is on such occasions. A sergeant accompanied by a squad of police entered and took the situation in hand.
Most 'strawnary, he fancied, was such rioting at that hour of the night. Disturbing the peace, and all that, this discharging of firearms. And when I showed them the drawing-room, they registered amazement and proceeded to search the house thoroughly. However, finding nothing but some splintered furniture and the remains of a cat, the sergeant contented himself with taking notes on my pedigree for the past four generations, as well as the history of "the bloody tible" I'd blamed for the disturbance; and then, after accepting a shot of brandy and a one-pound note, he marched his squad from the scene of the melee.
But I knew the end was not in sight. The police had granted my right to open fire on an intruder at that hour of the night, even though that was a beastly hazardous habit; yet they knew that something, somewhere, was decidedly off-color; and I had reason to expect that for the next few weeks I'd be followed by mysterious strangers wherever I went, and the house kept under strict surveillance.
It was dawn before I restored order. Yvonne, having recovered sufficiently, assisted me; for, with the remains of Miggles disposed of, there was nothing to upset her nerves again, though she did eye that table apprehensively, and refused to turn her back to it. And I didn’t blame her.
"Val," she finally remarked, "you must get rid of that table at once——"
"Absolutely!" I agreed.
"It;s haunted. Burn it, or drop it in the Thames, or—poor little Miggles."
And Yvonne was in tears.
The long and short of it was that after sending Yvonne and Annie to spend a day or two in the country with their mother, I invited my friend Dr. Paul Whitby and his brother Mark to sit up all night in the flat with me. They came at about 10 that evening, and at 11 the three of us went into the drawing-room, seated ourselves on the sofa, switched off the lights, and waited for what I sensed would inevitably happen.
For some time we talked and laughed. Neither of my friends believed in supernatural manifestations; so that the idea of standing guard over a haunted table struck them as the height of absurdity. They candidly admitted that they were seeing the farce through to a finish only to please me. Perhaps if they'd seen the drawing-room before I cleaned it up, they'd not have been so skeptical.
Every now and then Mark would make some facetious remark at which Paul would laugh, and, responding with some bon mot of his own, would in return draw a snort from Mark. After about half an hour of it, however, Mark began to yawn; and I think they both were more than half asleep when the hall clock struck midnight.
Then there came a most intense silence, a clinging, paralyzing silence that oppressed me, forced the very life and vitality out of me, much as walking his post between 2 and 4 in the morning drives the vital force out of a soldier on guard, no matter how much rest he may previously have had. I felt an intense concentration centering about the sofa on which we sat: a driving, relentless vortex of thought-waves. Then came a distinct and protracted sigh as of one awakening from a deep, refreshing sleep.
​Whatever it was, it was coming to life; that same savage, predatory life which had made a madhouse of my apartment the past two nights. My head reeled from the very strain of listening to the silence which followed that long sigh.
Finally there came another sigh, followed by a loud creak; then a muffled, shuddering sound as of a breath abruptly choked; another creak which could have come from no place other than the comer where I had placed that fiend-haunted table.
It was high time to awaken my companions. By dint of shaking them by the shoulders, I did succeed in arousing them from the stupor into which they had fallen; and it was several minutes before I could make them understand what was going on.
The noises in the comer had by this time entirely ceased. Again there was a long, oppressive silence; and it was not until 1, or perhaps half past—I had lost track of time, and a single stroke of the hall clock told me nothing—when there came another sigh, then another creak, and then a persistent, muffled throbbing, like the pulsing of African war-drums from a great distance: that same ominous, brooding thump-thump that had haunted me the past two nights; that solemn, fateful, deliberate beating that speaks of war and massacre and the devices of jungle devil-doctors.
I felt Paul grip me by the arm. And under any other circumstances I would have chuckled at the thought of those two pronounced skeptics getting their first taste of that bloodthirsty presence which had made a slaughter-house of my drawing-room.
More sighs and creaks, impressed on that terrifying crescendo of muffled pulsing; and then a rapid, irregular pounding, as if the table were rocking to and fro in great agitation, balancing first on one leg, then another.
“What the deuce can that be?” muttered Mark, as he rose from his seat.
The noises in the corner grew louder and louder; the clattering and jarring were succeeded by terrific thumps, just as if the table, trying to rise from the floor, were falling back each time it made the attempt.
And then I realized that my own muscles were contracting in sympathy with the efforts of this unseen monster, as if to help it set itself in motion! That last heave of my shoulders and leaning forward of my body seemed through the intervening space to have given it the final lift needed to set it lurching forward, moving across the room with a succession of bumps and thuds.
A yell of amazement from the usually cool and phlegmatic Mark; he too had felt the sorcery of that wooden demon. And then: "I'll stop you and get to the bottom of this trickery!"
The table leaped furiously, bounding in a mad rush to meet Mark's charge; then a series of bumps, snorts, and Mark's heavy breathing.
Paul and I sat in a stupor, terrified by this outrageous and impossible combat whose progress we could follow all too readily by the succession of thumps and crashes that marked its course about the room.
"Help! The damned thing's killing me!" shrieked Mark. And wrenched from our stupor by his shout of terror, we leaped to his assistance.
We found ourselves fighting for our lives. The thing we grappled, and from whose frenzy we sought to rescue Mark, seemed no longer a table, but a writhing, frantic beast of prey. We could feel it pulsating under our touch, hear it gasping and snarling as a creature in the throes of a desperate struggle. It was no longer wooden, but alive, vibrant with an outlandish, murderous force ​neither bestial nor human, but more terrific than either. We fought its leaps and rushes, and fought the horror with which it was inspiring us; struggled against the awful weariness which dulled us and prompted us to cease resisting our fate beneath those vicious claws which sought to grind us into the floor as they had crushed and torn Miggles.
Mark and Paul, vigorous and aggressive as they were, panted and groaned in the despair of that hideous combat, striving to gain a moment’s respite from that monster which rushed and battered us against the walls, the furniture, scattering everything before it. Nor did we dare relinquish our fast-weakening grip on the demon, lest it overwhelm us ere we could escape its triumphant charge. There was no escape from that vortex of horror, the driving, relentless mentality of which increased as we weakened.
Light! Great God, if we could only have a ray of light we might overcome this victorious Juggernaut which crushed and butted the life out of us, saw clearly in the darkness which confused us and nullified our efforts, shattered whatever co-operation might have turned the tide our way: for the cunning of the beast rather than its fierce energy dominated us.
And finally, despite its efforts, I did jab my finger into the pushbutton on the wall near the door against whose jamb the demon almost flattened me. Light! Brilliant, dazzling light that no sun-worshiper ever welcomed as we did!
The table shuddered convulsively and thumped from its rampant position to the floor.
My friends were so white and haggard that I scarcely knew them. Mark’s mouth bled; Paul was bruised and scarred; I was battered black and blue; and our clothes were in shreds.
“Thank God for light!” repeated Mark with more reverence than I had ever thought him capable of.
And we backed out of the drawingroom, not daring to turn our backs to that wooden monster.
The three of us sank into a heavy sleep from which we did not emerge until nearly noon.
Primed with coffee and several slugs A of brandy, we ventured into the drawing-room to contemplate the havoc wrought by that fearful combat; and not even daylight would entirely restore our courage. I stared at that lustrously gleaming table, and wondered how nearly those fine, fierce claws had missed a second immersion in blood; and then I glanced at Paul and Mark. A common impulse drew us to the fireplace.
Paul kindled a fire.
“Yes. I’ll chop the damned thing to bits and bum it,” I exclaimed quite needlessly. “Watch that beast while I get an ax.”
Mark, whose bruises and lacerations were quite painful, would not hear of first aid, and insisted that the execution take place at once.
My friends mustered up their courage and maneuvered that devilish, beautiful table into position so that I could swing freely without being cramped by chandeliers or furniture. We all felt that an extraordinary blow would be needed to cleave asunder that ghoulish lump of tropical wood: the savagery of its assault was still painfully fresh in our minds.
I squared off, getting as good a stance as I could on the polished floor; gripped the ax, poised it, made a practise swing, all the while eyeing that wooden monster, seeking a joint in its top, a vulnerable spot which would yield under my first blow: for I was possessed with the thought that the first stroke had to be mortal, else the thing would overwhelm us in its frenzy.
​The table faced its executioner. Yet it was rather I who was at bay, ax in hand, awaiting the charge of a fierce beast of prey: and for once the levity of my insouciant friends was absent from their contemplation of a grotesque spectacle.
The fire in the grate crackled in merry anticipation.
"Get it done and over with, Val," whispered Mark.
The ax flickered upward . . . and then I paused at the crest of the stroke, halted by an insistent pounding at my front door. Someone was demanding admittance: and that prosaic fact dispelled the tensity of the preceding instant, and made it seem very absurd to stand, ax in hand, anticipating the leap of a hand-carved table.
"Let him in, Mark," I commanded; and I lowered the ax, for it is rather awkward to be caught in the act of assaulting a table in one's drawing-room. I felt somewhat the same relief I would have experienced had I suddenly been allowed to resign a position as the executioner of a human being. The insistent caller was the dealer who had sold me that accursed table.
"Oh, I say, you mustn't," he protested, forgetting his place so far as to lay his hand on my wrist. "Really, sir——"
"Now what in thunder is this?" I demanded. "I paid enough for this piece of iniquity, and by God I'll wreck it if I feel like it!"
"We jolly well will!" asserted Paul. "And since you sold it, what have you to say about it, my man?"
"Please, sir, put that ax aside and let me explain," begged the dealer. "It can't hurt you in daylight."
"So you knew all the while——"
The shopkeeper squirmed, coughed, and resumed: "Here's fifteen guineas, sir. And consider that I've bought the table."
"Well, how about the damage to my drawing-room?" I demanded. "You wilfully and knowingly sold——"
"Yes, sir, I'll confess I did. But I'll adjust that presently, sir. And then, noting that my fingers were again tightening on the ax-helve, "Please don't kill him, sir. I'll——"
"Kill him?" gasped Paul. "Really, now, but this is a bit thick. You might——"
And thrusting fifteen guineas into my hand, forcing me to relinquish the ax, the dealer set about explaining.
"A short time ago," he began, "I numbered among my friends a certain eminent scientist, Professor William Percival, a Fellow of the Royal Society”—the dealer paused impressively, then continued—"who was deeply interested in all questions pertaining to spiritualism, especially table-turning. It was his theory that the tiltings, rappings, and leapings about, when not due to fraud, were occasioned, not by animal magnetism, as is popularly supposed, but by the spiritual self or ego of someone present being actually thrown or projected into the table."
As the fellow warmed up, he lost his tradesman's manner and became quite the associate of Fellows of the Royal Society.
"He believed that such a feat, usually performed unconsciously, could be performed deliberately and at will, though only by the most intense and powerful concentration. To prove his theory he began experimenting on small objects: books, walking-sticks, newspapers. And after endless attempts, conducted in the dead of the night, between 12 and 3 in the morning, when, owing to the stillness, conditions are most favorable for concentration, he finally succeeded."
"The hell you say!" I interrupted. "Do you mean——?"
​"Yes indeed. Quite.
"He was sitting in his chair," resumed the shopkeeper, "concentrating on being inside a certain wooden paper-cutter, moving it about, when, quite suddenly, he felt himself pass out of his body and walk about on the table. Then came, as he later explained, a kind of tug, as if someone were pulling him by the shoulders, and he was again in his body, in the chair. The paper-cutter was several inches from the spot where he had placed it.
"The next night he tried with a book, but with no success; but on the following evening, he concentrated on a Malacca stick, taking possession of it with his ego and forcing it to stand upright and pirouette about the room."
"Do you ask us to believe that?" demanded Paul.
"Precisely, sir. I saw that with my own eyes," affirmed the dealer. "And if I may continue——
"The professor deduced that objects of wood were more susceptible to projection than others, and to these he confined his experiments. He worked next on a wooden stool, then a chair, and so on, controlling larger and larger objects as his powers increased, until finally he resolved to animate this very table which I sold you the other day.
"The legs of that table exercised an extraordinary fascination over him. I distinctly remember what he said when he came to my shop one day and saw the table for the first time.
"'My word, Ibbetson,' he exclaimed, 'what a wonderful piece! You must let me take it to my study. If I can but succeed in projecting myself into it, beware! For I shall certainly be a tiger! Ah, but those lovely paws!' he sighed affectionately.
"He seemed so infatuated," continued the shopkeeper, "that I finally consented. And then, noticing how haggard he looked, and how his eyes glistened, I suggested that he'd been overdoing it, and that his study of spiritualism was doing him no good at all.
    But he laughed, scoffed at my fears, and sent for the table, arranging for a stance the following night.
"Four of us were present: Percival, two other friends, and I. Shortly after midnight, Percival declared he would project himself. We watched him as he concentrated——"
Here the dealer shuddered, then continued: "He sat hunched forward, half crouching in his seat, almost like a beast about to spring. His eyes, fixed staringly on the table, were unseeing and glassy. Then, after an interminable pause, his lips began to quiver, and he muttered, as nearly as we could understand, 'I'm on the way . . . I'm coming as quickly as possible . . . I can't come any faster . . . Ah! . . .'
"He snarled, thumped the table furiously, yelled like some monstrous cat.
"My friends looked at me significantly; and I knew by their expressions that we agreed in our belief that Percival was mad. But before we could take any action, his eyes closed, the expression of unspeakable beastliness died out of his face, and he relapsed into a trance. I was still looking at him when my attention was abruptly called to the table. It began to throb, and on placing my ear close to it, I could distinctly hear something pulsing: it sounded exactly like the irregular beating of a heart. Then a jarring noise, and the table lunged forward, bounding and whirling furiously, leaping in one direction and another. A sudden lurch brought it violently against the professor’s chair, throwing him to the floor. The motion of the table
​ceased when we switched on the lights. But too late. He was dead.
"We never knew whether the impact of the table killed him, or whether he was dead before the table touched him. A medical certificate was made, giving heart failure as the cause: for the less said about such matters the better.
"I resumed possession of the table," continued the dealer, "but every night about 12, that table began its antics. That sort of thing went on for weeks, ever increasing in violence. I sold it to you, thinking that you—since you didn't know its history and your house was in no way connected with the foregoing events—might put a stop to such unbelievable performances."
"I see your line of thought," I replied, "but it didn't work out that way, unfortunately. And my house, thanks to your fraud, is a wreck. And fraud it is, for you represented it to be a table, and not a saber-toothed tiger.”
"Quite right, sir," he answered contritely. "And I assure you——"
"By the way," interrupted Paul, "what brought you here at this time?"
"The police . . . you told them of the table night before last. They naturally investigated my shop and questioned me about the table, thinking some collector had followed it from the shop to this house. So I knew it was up to its old tricks."
"Now," I queried, "what are you going to do with it? You've bought it back from me; so I can't follow my inclination to chop it up and burn it."
"Neither can I," declared the dealer. "For if I did, I'd feel I had assassinated Professor Percival. So I'll keep it chained up in a brightly lighted room."