The Open Window

Framton Nuttel had come to the country to rest his nerves. Before he left, his sister gave him letters introducing him to people she had met there four years earlier. She was afraid he would stay alone, speak to nobody and become even more nervous.

One of the letters brought him to Mrs Sappleton's house. While he waited for her, he sat with her niece, Vera, a calm, confident girl of fifteen. He tried to say something polite, though he doubted whether visits to strangers would improve his health.

»Do you know many people here?« Vera asked.

»Hardly anyone. My sister stayed here some years ago.«

Vera then asked what he knew about her aunt. Only her name and address, he replied.

»Her terrible loss happened three years ago, after your sister's visit,« said Vera. She pointed to the large window that stood open to the garden. It was low enough for people to walk through.

»Her husband and her two younger brothers went hunting through that window. They never came back. It had been a very wet summer. They fell into deep mud on the open land and disappeared. Their bodies were never found. Their little brown dog died with them.«

According to Vera, her aunt still believed they would return. Every evening, she left the window open until dark. Vera described the white coat the husband had carried and the song the youngest brother used to sing to annoy his sister.

»Sometimes, on a quiet evening, I almost feel they really will come through that window,« she added, shaking a little.

Framton was relieved when Mrs Sappleton arrived. But almost immediately, she said her husband and brothers would soon return from hunting. She worried about the mud they would bring onto her carpets.

To Framton, her cheerful conversation was horrible. He tried to change the subject by describing the rest his doctors had ordered. She barely listened. Her eyes kept moving towards the window.

»Here they are at last!« she suddenly cried.

Vera stared out with a look of horror. Framton turned and saw three men carrying guns across the garden. One had a white coat over his shoulders. A brown dog followed. Then a young voice sang the very song Vera had described.

Framton seized his hat and stick and rushed away. A cyclist on the road had to turn into a hedge to avoid him.

The men came in through the window, perfectly alive. The husband asked who had just run out. Mrs Sappleton said the visitor had only talked about his illnesses, then left without saying goodbye.

»Perhaps it was the dog,« Vera suggested calmly. She claimed Framton had told her about being chased by dogs in India. He had escaped into a burial ground and spent the night in a newly dug grave while the dogs stood above him.

This explanation, like her earlier tragedy, was completely invented. Making up stories at a moment's notice was Vera's special skill.