But it was not all dark outside: one spot caught my eye, bright with a livid unearthly brightness--the Dead Stone shining out into the night like an ember from hell's furnace! There was a horrid semblance of life in the light,--a palpitating, breathing glow,--and my pulses beat in time to it, till I seemed to be drawing it into my veins. It had no warmth, and as it entered my blood my heart grew colder, and my muscles more rigid. My fingers clutched the dagger-hilt till its jeweled roughness pressed painfully into my palm. All the strength of my strained powers seemed gathered in that grasp, and the more tightly I held the more vividly did the rock gleam and quiver with infernal life. The dead woman! The dead woman! What had I to do with her? Let her bones rest in the filth of their own decay,--out there under the accursed stone.
And now the noise of the wind lessens in my ears. Let it go on,--yes, louder and wilder, drowning my senses in its tumult. What is there with me in the room--the great empty room behind me?
Nothing; only the cabinet with its waving doors. They are waving to and fro, to and fro--I know it. But there is no other life in the room but that--no, no; no other life in the room but that.
Oh! don't let the wind stop. I can't hear anything while it goes on;--but if it stops! Ah! the gusts grow weaker, struggling, forced into rest. Now--now--they have ceased.
Silence!
A fearful pause.
What is that that I hear? There, behind me in the room?
Do I hear it? Is there anything?
The throbbing of my own blood in my ears.
No, no! There is something as well,--something outside myself.
What is it?
Low; heavy; regular.
God! it is--it is the breath of a living creature! A living creature! here--close to me--alone with me!
The numbness of terror conquers me. I can neither stir nor speak.
Only my whole soul strains at my ears to listen.
Where does the sound come from?
Close behind me--close.
Ah-h!
It is from there--from the bed where I was lying a moment ago! . . .
I try to shriek, but the sound gurgles unuttered in my throat. I clutch the stone mullions of the window, and press myself against the panes. If I could but throw myself out!--anywhere, anywhere--away from that dreadful sound--from that thing close behind me in the bed! But I can do nothing. The wind has broken forth again now; the storm crashes round me. And still through it all I hear the ghastly breathing--even, low, scarcely audible--but I hear it.
I shall hear it as long as I live! . . .
Is the thing moving?
Is it coming nearer?
No, no; not that,--that was but a fancy to freeze me dead.
But to stand here, with that creature behind me, listening, waiting for the warm horror of its breath to touch my neck! Ah! I cannot.
I will look. I will see it face to face. Better any agony than this one.
Slowly, with held breath, and eyes aching in their stretched fixity, I turn. There it is! Clear in the moonlight I see the monstrous form within the bed,--the dark coverlet rises and falls with its heaving breath. . . . Ah! heaven have mercy! Is there none to help, none to save me from this awful presence? . . .
And the knife-hilt draws my fingers round it, while my flesh quivers, and my soul grows sick with loathing. The wind howls, the shadows chase through the room, hunting with fearful darkness more fearful light; and I stand looking, . . . listening. . . .
. . . . . .
I must not stand here for ever; I must be up and doing. What a noise the wind makes, and the rattling of the windows and the doors. If he sleeps through this he will sleep through all.
