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
Hôtel 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.