The Other Bed by E. F. Benson
I had gone out to Switzerland just before Christmas, expecting,
from experience, a month of divinely renovating weather, of skating
all day in brilliant sun, and basking in the hot frost of that
windless atmosphere. Occasionally, as I knew, there might be a
snowfall, which would last perhaps for forty-eight hours at the
outside, and would be succeeded by another ten days of cloudless
perfection, cold even to zero at night, but irradiated all day long
by the unflecked splendour of the sun.
Instead the climatic conditions were horrible. Day after day a
gale screamed through this upland valley that should have been so
windless and serene, bringing with it a tornado of sleet that changed
to snow by night. For ten days there was no abatement of it, and
evening after evening, as I consulted my barometer, feeling sure that
the black finger would show that we were coming to the end of these
abominations, I found that it had sunk a little lower yet, till it
stayed, like a homing pigeon, on the S of storm. I mention these
things in depredation of the story that follows, in order that the
intelligent reader may say at once, if he wishes, that all that
occurred was merely a result of the malaise of nerves and digestion
that perhaps arose from those storm-bound and disturbing conditions.
And now to go back to the beginning again.
I had written to engage a room at the Hotel Beau Site, and had
been agreeably surprised on arrival to find that for the modest sum
of twelve francs a day I was allotted a room on the first floor with
two beds in it. Otherwise the hotel was quite full. Fearing to be
billeted in a twenty-two franc room, by mistake, I instantly
confirmed my arrangements at the bureau. There was no mistake: I had
ordered a twelve-franc room and had been given one. The very civil
clerk hoped that I was satisfied with it, for otherwise there was
nothing vacant. I hastened to say that I was more than satisfied,
fearing the fate of Esau.
I arrived about three in the afternoon of a cloudless and glorious
day, the last of the series. I hurried down to the rink, having had
the prudence to put skates in the forefront of my luggage, and spent
a divine but struggling hour or two, coming up to the hotel about
sunset. I had letters to write, and after ordering tea to be sent up
to my gorgeous apartment, No. 23, on the first floor, I went straight
The door was ajar and--I feel certain I should not even remember
this now except in the light of what followed--just as I got close to
it, I heard some faint movement inside the room and instinctively
knew that my servant was there unpacking. Next moment I was in the
room myself, and it was empty. The unpacking had been finished, and
everything was neat, orderly, and comfortable. My barometer was on
the table, and I observed with dismay that it had gone down nearly
half an inch. I did not give another thought to the movement I
thought I had heard from outside.
Certainly I had a delightful room for my twelve francs a day.
There were, as I have said, two beds in it, on one of which were
already laid out my dress-clothes, while night-things were disposed
on the other. There were two windows, between which stood a large
washing-stand, with plenty of room on it; a sofa with its back to the
light stood conveniently near the pipes of central heating, there
were a couple of good arm-chairs, a writing table, and, rarest of
luxuries, another table, so that every time one had breakfast it was
not necessary to pile up a drift of books and papers to make room for
the tray. My window looked east, and sunset still flamed on the
western faces of the virgin snows, while above, in spite of the
dejected barometer, the sky was bare of clouds, and a thin slip of
pale crescent moon was swung high among the stars that still burned
dimly in these first moments of their kindling. Tea came up for me
without delay, and, as I ate, I regarded my surroundings with extreme
Then, quite suddenly and without cause, I saw that the disposition
of the beds would never do; I could not possibly sleep in the bed
that my servant had chosen for me, and without pause I jumped up,
transferred my dress clothes to the other bed, and put my night
things where they had been. It was done breathlessly almost, and not
till then did I ask myself why I had done it. I found I had not the
slightest idea. I had merely felt that I could not sleep in the other
bed. But having made the change I felt perfectly content.
My letters took me an hour or so to finish, and I had yawned and
blinked considerably over the last one or two, in part from their
inherent dullness, in part from quite natural sleepiness. For I had
been in the train for twenty-four hours, and was fresh to these
bracing airs which so conduce to appetite, activity, and sleep, and
as there was still an hour before I need dress, I lay down on my sofa
with a book for excuse, but the intention to slumber as reason. And
consciousness ceased as if a tap had been turned off.
Then--I dreamed. I dreamed that my servant came very quietly into
the room, to tell me no doubt that it was time to dress. I supposed
there were a few minutes to spare yet, and that he saw I was dozing,
for, instead of rousing me, he moved quietly about the room, setting
things in order. The light appeared to me to be very dim, for I could
not see him with any distinctness, indeed, I only knew it was he
because it could not be any body else. Then he paused by my
washing-stand, which had a shelf for brushes and razors above it, and
I saw him take a razor from its case and begin stropping it; the
light was strongly reflected on the blade of the razor. He tried the
edge once or twice on his thumb-nail, and then to my horror I saw him
trying it on his throat. Instantaneously one of those deafening
dream-crashes awoke me, and I saw the door half open, and my servant
in the very act of coming in. No doubt the opening of the door had
constituted the crash.
I had joined a previously-arrived party of five, all of us old
friends, and accustomed to see each other often; and at dinner, and
afterwards in intervals of bridge, the conversation roamed agreeably
over a variety of topics, rocking-turns and the prospects of weather
(a thing of vast importance in Switzerland, and not a commonplace
subject) and the performances at the opera, and under what
circumstances as revealed in dummy's hand, is it justifiable for a
player to refuse to return his partner's original lead in no trumps.
Then over whisky and soda and the repeated "last cigarette," it
veered back via the Zantzigs to thought transference and the
transference of emotion. Here one of the party, Harry Lambert, put
forward the much discussed explanation of haunted houses based on
this principle. He put it very concisely.
"Everything that happens," he said, "whether it is a step we take,
or a thought that crosses our mind, makes some change in it,
immediate material world. Now the most violent and concentrated
emotion we can imagine is the emotion that leads a man to take so
extreme a step as killing himself or somebody else. I can easily
imagine such a deed so eating into the material scene, the room or
the haunted heath, where it happens, that its mark lasts an enormous
time. The air rings with the cry of the slain and still drips with
his blood. It is not everybody who will perceive it, but sensitives
will. By the way, I am sure that man who waits on us at dinner is a
It was already late, and I rose.
"Let us hurry him to the scene of a crime," I said. "For myself I
shall hurry to the scene of sleep."
Outside the threatening promise of the barometer was already
finding fulfilment, and a cold ugly wind was complaining among the
pines, and hooting round the peaks, and snow had begun to fall. The
night was thickly overcast, and it seemed as if uneasy presences were
going to and fro in the darkness. But there was no use in ill augury,
and certainly if we were to be house-bound for a few days I was lucky
in having so commodious a lodging. I had plenty to occupy myself with
indoors, though I should vastly have preferred to be engaged outside,
and in the immediate present how good it was to lie free in a proper
bed after a cramped night in the train.
I was half-undressed when there came a tap at my door, and the
waiter who had served us at dinner came in carrying a bottle of
whisky. He was a tall young fellow, and though I had not noticed him
at dinner, I saw at once now, as he stood in the glare of the
electric light, what Harry had meant when he said he was sure he was
a sensitive. There is no mistaking that look: it is exhibited in a
peculiar "inlooking" of the eye. Those eyes, one knows, see further
than the surface...
"The bottle of whisky for monsieur," he said putting it down on
"But I ordered no whisky," said I. He looked puzzled.
"Number twenty-three?" he said. Then he glanced at the other
"Ah, for the other gentleman, without doubt," he said.
"But there is no other gentleman," said I.
"I am alone here."
He took up the bottle again.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said. "There must be a mistake. I am new
here; I only came today."
"But I thought--"
"Yes?" said I.
"I thought that number twenty-three had ordered a bottle of
whisky," he repeated.
"Goodnight, monsieur, and pardon."
I got into bed, extinguished the light, and feeling very sleepy
and heavy with the oppression, no doubt, of the snow that was coming,
expected to fall asleep at once. Instead my mind would not quite go
to roost, but kept sleepily stumbling about among the little events
of the day, as some tired pedestrian in the dark stumbles over stones
instead of lifting his feet. And as I got sleepier it seemed to me
that my mind kept moving in a tiny little circle. At one moment it
drowsily recollected how I had thought I had heard movement inside my
room, at the next it remembered my dream of some figure going
stealthily about and stropping a razor, at a third it wondered why
this Swiss waiter with the eyes of a "sensitive" thought that number
twenty-three had ordered a bottle of whisky. But at the time I made
no guess as to any coherence between these little isolated facts; I
only dwelt on them with drowsy persistence. Then a fourth fact came
to join the sleepy circle, and I wondered why I had felt a repugnance
against using the other bed.
But there was no explanation of this forthcoming, either, and the
outlines of thought grew more blurred and hazy, until I lost
Next morning began the series of awful days, sleet and snow
falling relentlessly with gusts of chilly wind, making any
out-of-door amusement next to impossible. The snow was too soft for
tobogganning, it balled on the skis, and as for the rink it was but a
series of pools of slushy snow.
This in itself, of course, was quite enough to account for any
ordinary depression and heaviness of spirit, but all the time I felt
there was something more than that to which I owed the utter
blackness that hung over those days. I was beset too by fear that at
first was only vague, but which gradually became more definite, until
it resolved itself into a fear of number twenty-three and in
particular a terror of the other bed. I had no notion why or how I
was afraid of it, the thing was perfectly causeless, but the shape
and the outline of it grew slowly clearer, as detail after detail of
ordinary life, each minute and trivial in itself, carved and moulded
this fear, till it became definite. Yet the whole thing was so
causeless and childish that I could speak to no one of it; I could
but assure myself that it was all a figment of nerves disordered by
this unseemly weather.
However, as to the details, there were plenty of them. Once I woke
up from strangling nightmare, unable at first to move, but in a panic
of terror, believing that I was sleeping in the other bed. More than
once, too, awaking before I was called, and getting out of bed to
look at the aspect of the morning, I saw with a sense of dreadful
misgiving that the bed-clothes on the other bed were strangely
disarranged, as if some one had slept there, and smoothed them down
afterwards, but not so well as not to give notice of the occupation.
So one night I laid a trap, so to speak, for the intruder of which
the real object was to calm my own nervousness (for I still told
myself that I was frightened of nothing), and tucked in the sheet
very carefully, laying the pillow on the top of it. But in the
morning it seemed as if my interference had not been to the taste of
the occupant, for there was more impatient disorder than usual in the
bed-clothes, and on the pillow was an indentation, round and rather
deep, such as we may see any morning in our own beds. Yet by day
these things did not frighten me, but it was when I went to bed at
night that I quaked at the thought of further developments.
It happened also from time to time that I wanted something brought
me, or wanted my servant. On three or four of these occasions my bell
was answered by the "Sensitive," as we called him, but the Sensitive,
I noticed, never came into the room. He would open the door a chink
to receive my order and on returning would again open it a chink to
say that my boots, or whatever it was, were at the door. Once I made
him come in, but I saw him cross himself as, with a face of icy
terror, he stepped into the room, and the sight somehow did not
reassure me. Twice also he came up in the evening, when I had not
rung at all, even as he came up the first night, and opened the door
a chink to say that my bottle of whisky was outside. But the poor
fellow was in a state of such bewilderment when I went out and told
him that I had not ordered whisky, that I did not press for an
explanation. He begged my pardon profusely; he thought a bottle of
whisky had been ordered for number twenty-three. It was his mistake,
entirely--I should not be charged for it; it must have been the other
gentleman. Pardon again; he remembered there was no other gentleman,
the other bed was unoccupied.
It was on the night when this happened for the second time that I
definitely began to wish that I too was quite certain that the other
bed was unoccupied. The ten days of snow and sleet were at an end,
and to-night the moon once more, grown from a mere slip to a shining
shield, swung serenely among the stars. But though at dinner everyone
exhibited an extraordinary change of spirit, with the rising of the
barometer and the discharge of this huge snow-fall, the intolerable
gloom which had been mine so long but deepened and blackened. The
fear was to me now like some statue, nearly finished, modelled by the
carving hands of these details, and though it still stood below its
moistened sheet, any moment, I felt, the sheet might be twitched
away, and I be confronted with it. Twice that evening I had started
to go to the bureau, to ask to have a bed made up for me, anywhere,
in the billiard-room or the smoking-room, since the hotel was full,
but the intolerable childishness of the proceeding revolted me. What
was I afraid of? A dream of my own, a mere nightmare? Some fortuitous
disarrangement of bed linen? The fact that a Swiss waiter made
mistakes about bottles of whisky? It was an impossible cowardice.
But equally impossible that night were billiards or bridge, or any
form of diversion. My only salvation seemed to lie in downright hard
work, and soon after dinner I went to my room (in order to make my
first real counter-move against fear) and sat down solidly to several
hours of proof-correcting, a menial and monotonous employment, but
one which is necessary, and engages the entire attention. But first I
looked thoroughly round the room, to reassure myself, and found all
modern and solid; a bright paper of daisies on the wall, a floor
parquetted, the hot-water pipes chuckling to themselves in the
corner, my bed-clothes turned down for the night, the other bed--The
electric light was burning brightly, and there seemed to me to be a
curious stain, as of a shadow, on the lower part of the pillow and
the top of the sheet, definite and suggestive, and for a moment I
stood there again throttled by a nameless terror. Then taking my
courage in my hands I went closer and looked at it. Then I touched
it; the sheet, where the stain or shadow was, seemed damp to the
hand, so also was the pillow. And then I remembered; I had thrown
some wet clothes on the bed before dinner. No doubt that was the
reason. And fortified by this extremely simple dissipation of my
fear, I sat down and began on my proofs. But my fear had been this,
that the stain had not in that first moment looked like the mere
greyness of water-moistened linen.
From below, at first came the sound of music, for they were
dancing to-night, but I grew absorbed in my work, and only recorded
the fact that after a time there was no more music. Steps went along
the passages, and I heard the buzz of conversation on landings, and
the closing of doors till by degrees the silence became noticeable.
The loneliness of night had come.
It was after the silence had become lonely that I made the first
pause in my work, and by the watch on my table saw that it was
already past midnight. But I had little more to do; another half-hour
would see the end of the business, but there were certain notes I had
to make for future reference, and my stock of paper was already
exhausted. However, I had bought some in the village that afternoon,
and it was in the bureau downstairs, where I had left it, when I came
in and had subsequently forgotten to bring it upstairs. It would be
the work of a minute only to get it.
The electric light had brightened considerably during the last
hour, owing no doubt to many burners being put out in the hotel, and
as I left the room I saw again the stain on the pillow and sheet of
the other bed. I had really forgotten all about it for the last hour,
and its presence there came as an unwelcome surprise. Then I
remembered the explanation of it, which had struck me before, and for
purposes of self-reassurement I again touched it. It was still damp,
but--Had I got chilly with my work? For it was warm to the hand.
Warm, and surely rather sticky. It did not seem like the touch of the
water-damp. And at the same moment I knew I was not alone in the
room. There was something there, something silent as yet, and as yet
invisible. But it was there.
Now for the consolation of persons who are inclined to be fearful,
I may say at once that I am in no way brave, but that terror which,
God knows, was real enough, was yet so interesting, that interest
overruled it. I stood for a moment by the other bed, and,
half-consciously only, wiped the hand that had felt the stain, for
the touch of it, though all the time I told myself that it was but
the touch of the melted snow on the coat I had put there, was
unpleasant and unclean. More than that I did not feel, because in the
presence of the unknown and the perhaps awful, the sense of
curiosity, one of the strongest instincts we have, came to the fore.
So, rather eager to get back to my room again, I ran downstairs to
get the packet of paper. There was still a light in the bureau, and
the Sensitive, on night-duty, I suppose, was sitting there dozing. My
entrance did not disturb him, for I had on noiseless felt slippers,
and seeing at once the package I was in search of, I took it, and
left him still unawakened. That was somehow of a fortifying nature.
The Sensitive anyhow could sleep in his hard chair; the occupant of
the unoccupied bed was not calling to him to-night.
I closed my door quietly, as one does at night when the house is
silent, and sat down at once to open my packet of paper and finish my
work. It was wrapped up in an old news-sheet, and struggling with the
last of the string that bound it, certain words caught my eye. Also
the date at the top of the paper caught my eye, a date nearly a year
old, or, to be quite accurate, a date fifty-one weeks old. It was an
American paper and what it recorded was this:
"The body of Mr. Silas R. Hume, who committed suicide last week at
the Hotel Beau Site, Moulin sur Chalons, is to be buried at his house
in Boston, Mass. The inquest held in Switzerland showed that he cut
his throat with a razor, in an attack of delirium tremens induced by
drink. In the cupboard of his room were found three dozen empty
bottles of Scotch whisky..."
So far I had read when without warning the electric light went
out, and I was left in, what seemed for the moment, absolute
darkness. And again I knew I was not alone, and I knew now who it was
who was with me in the room.
Then the absolute paralysis of fear seized me. As if a wind had
blown over my head, I felt the hair of it stir and rise a little. My
eyes also, I suppose, became accustomed to the sudden darkness, for
they could now perceive the shape of the furniture in the room from
the light of the starlit sky outside. They saw more too than the mere
furniture. There was standing by the wash-stand between the two
windows a figure, clothed only in night-garments, and its hands moved
among the objects on the shelf above the basin. Then with two steps
it made a sort of dive for the other bed, which was in shadow. And
then the sweat poured on to my forehead.
Though the other bed stood in shadow I could still see dimly, but
sufficiently, what was there. The shape of a head lay on the pillow,
the shape of an arm lifted its hand to the electric bell that was
close by on the wall, and I fancied I could hear it distantly
ringing. Then a moment later came hurrying feet up the stairs and
along the passage outside, and a quick rapping at my door.
"Monsieur's whisky, monsieur's whisky," said a voice just outside.
"Pardon, monsieur, I brought it as quickly as I could."
The impotent paralysis of cold terror was still on me. Once I
tried to speak and failed, and still the gentle tapping went on at
the door, and the voice telling some one that his whisky was there.
Then at a second attempt, I heard a voice which was mine saying
"For God's sake come in; I am alone with it."
There was the click of a turned door-handle, and as suddenly as it
had gone out a few seconds before, the electric light came back
again, and the room was in full illumination. I saw a face peer round
the corner of the door, but it was at another face I looked, the face
of a man sallow and shrunken, who lay in the other bed, staring at me
with glazed eyes. He lay high in bed, and his throat was cut from ear
to ear; and the lower part of the pillow was soaked in blood, and the
sheet streamed with it.
Then suddenly that hideous vision vanished, and there was only a
sleepy-eyed waiter looking into the room. But below the sleepiness
terror was awake, and his voice shook when he spoke.
"Monsieur rang?" he asked.
No, monsieur had not rung. But monsieur made himself a couch in