darkness, and drives the cold sweat out upon our forehead while
we lie still and hold our breath for fear. Man as I was, I shuddered
convulsively from head to foot, and fixed my eyes earnestly on the
terrible portrait. In a minute it was a mere picture again--an
inanimate colored canvas--wearing no expression upon its painted
features save that which the artist had given to it nearly a century
ago. I thought then that the strange appearance I had witnessed
was probably the effect of the fitful candlelight, or an illusion
of my own vision; but now I believe otherwise. Seeing nothing
further unusual in the picture, I turned my back upon it, and made
a few steps towards the door, intending to quit this mysterious
chamber of horrors, when a third and more hideous phenomenon riveted
me to the spot where I stood; for, as I looked towards the oaken
door in the corner, I became aware of something slowly filtering
from beneath it, and creeping towards me. O heaven! I had not
long to look to know what that something was:--it was blood-red,
thick, stealthy! On it came, winding its way in a frightful stream
into the room, soddening the rich carpet, and lying presently in
a black pool at my feet. It had trickled in from the adjoining
chamber, that chamber the entrance to which was closed by the bookcase.
There were some great volumes on the ground before the door,--volumes
which I had noticed when I entered the room, on account of the
thick dust with which they were surrounded. They were lying now
in a pool of stagnant blood. It would be utterly impossible for
me to attempt to describe my sensations at that minute. I was not
capable of feeling any distinct emotion. My brain seemed oppressed,
I could scarcely breathe--scarcely move. I watched the dreadful
stream oozing drowsily through the crevices of the mouldy, rotting
woodwork--bulging out in great beads like raindrops on the sides
of the door--trickling noiselessly down the knots of the carved oak.