The broken panes of glass
in the garret above were now explained. I was not the first one who
had climbed that creaking pine tree this fall.
Something like a sensible dread of a very possible danger now seized
hold of me. If I had stumbled upon these strangely subtile, yet
devilishly bold creatures in their secret lair, the pistol I carried
was not going to save me. Shut in like a fox in a hole, I had little
to hope for, if they once made their appearance at the stairhead or
came upon me from any of the dim halls of the crazy old dwelling,
which I now began to find altogether too large for my comfort.
Stealing cautiously forth from the room in which I had found so much
to disconcert me, I crept towards the front staircase and listened.
All was deathly quiet. The old pine tree moaned and twisted without,
and from time to time the wind came sweeping down the chimney with an
unearthly shrieking sound that was weirdly in keeping with the place.
But within and below all was still as the tomb, and though in no ways
reassured, I determined to descend and have the suspense over at
once. I did so, pistol in hand and ears stretched to their utmost to
catch the slightest rustle, but no sound came to disturb me, nor did
I meet on this lower floor the sign of any other presence in the
house but my own.
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