purple mark, with an outer ring, like the scar of a burn. That
scar is on my hand now, and I suppose will be there all my life.
I looked at my watch, which I had left behind on the mantelpiece.
It was five minutes past twelve. Should I go to bed? I stirred
the sinking fire into a blaze, and looked anxiously at my candle.
Neither fire nor candles, I perceived, would last much longer.
Before long both would be expended, and I should be in darkness.
In darkness, and alone in that house. The bare idea of a night
passed in such solitude was terrible to me. I tried to laugh at
my fears. And reproached myself with weakness and cowardice. I
reverted to the stereotyped method of consolation under circumstances
of this description, and strove to persuade myself that, being
guiltless, I had no cause to fear the powers of evil. But in vain.
Trembling from head to foot, I raked together the smouldering embers
in the stove for the last time, wrapped my railway rug around me--
for I dared not undress--and threw myself on the bed, where I lay
sleepless until the dawn. But oh, what I endured all those weary
hours no human creature can imagine. I watched the last sparks of
the fire die out, one by one, and heard the ashes slide and drop
slowly upon the hearth. I watched the flame of the candle flare
up and sink again a dozen times, and then at last expire, leaving
me in utter darkness and silence. I fancied, ever and anon, that
I could distinguish the sound of phantom feet coming down the
corridor towards my room, and that the mysterious Presence I had
encountered in the panelled chamber stood at my bedside looking at
me, or that a stealthy hand touched mine. I felt the sweat upon
my forehead, but I dared not move to wipe it away. I thought of
people whose hair had turned white through terror in a few brief
hours, and wondered what color mine would be in the morning. And
when at last--at last--the first grey glimmer of that morning peered