"I am determined, if I live the night through, to start for the
coast early the next morning, taking my chance out there in the grim
grasslands--with it. But with morning, I dare not. I do not know in
which direction the monster went; and I dare not risk coming upon
him in the open, unarmed as I am. So, as in a maze, I remain at the
bungalow, and ever my eyes turn toward the sun, lurching relentlessly
down the sky toward the horizon. Ah, God! if I could but halt the sun
in the sky!" The man was in the clutch of some terrific power; his words fairly
leaped at us. "Then the sun rocks down the sky and the long gray shadows come
stalking across the grasslands. Dizzy with fear, I have bolted the
doors and windows and lighted the lamp long before the last faint glow
of twilight fades. The light from the windows may attract the monster,
but I dare not stay in the dark. And again I take my stand in the
center of the room--waiting." There was a shuddersome halt. Then he continued, barely above a
whisper, moistening his lips: "There is no knowing how long I stand
there; Time has ceased to be and each second is an eon; each minute is
an eternity stretching into endless eternities. Then, God! but what is
that?" he leaned forward, the moonlight etching his face into such a
mask of horrified listening that each of us shivered and flung a hasty
glance over our shoulders. "Not the night breeze this time," he whispered. "Something makes the
grasses swish-swish--as if a great, long, pliant weight were being
dragged through them. Above the bungalow it swishes and then ceases--in
front of the door; then the hinges creak--creak! the door begins to
bulge inward--a small bit--then some more!" The man's arms were held
in front of him, as if braced strongly against something, and his
breath came in quick gasps. "And I know I should lean against the door
and hold it shut, but I do not, I can not move. I stand there, like a
sheep waiting to be slaughtered--but the door holds!" Again that sigh
expressive of pent-up feeling. He drew a shaky hand across his brow. "And all night I stand in the
center of that room, as motionless as an image, except to turn slowly,
as the swish-swish of the grass marks the fiend's course about the
house. Ever I keep my eyes in the direction of that soft, sinister
sound. Sometimes it ceases for an instant, or for several minutes,
and then I stand scarcely breathing, for a horrible obsession has it
that the serpent has in some way made entrance into the bungalow, and
I start and whirl this way and that, frightfully fearful of making a
noise, though I know not why, but ever with the feeling that the thing
is at my back. Then the sounds commence again and I freeze motionless. *       *       *       *       *

"Now here is the only time that my consciousness, which guides my
waking hours, ever in any way pierces the veil of dreams. I am, in
the dream, in no way conscious that it is a dream, but, in a detached
sort of way, my other mind recognizes certain facts and passes them
on to my sleeping--shall I say 'ego'? That is to say, my personality
is for an instant truly dual and separate to an extent, as the right
and left arms are separate, while making up parts in the same entity. My dreaming mind has no cognizance of my higher mind; for the time
being the other mind is subordinated and the subconscious mind is
in full control, to such an extent that it does not even recognize
the existence of the other. But the conscious mind, now sleeping,
is cognizant of dim thought-waves emanating from the dream mind. I
know that I have not made this entirely clear, but the fact remains
that I know that my mind, conscious and subconscious, is near to
ruin. My obsession of fear, as I stand there in my dream, is that
the serpent will raise itself and peer into the window at me. And I
know, in my dream, that if this occurs I shall go insane. And so vivid
is the impression imparted to my conscious, now sleeping mind that
the thought-waves stir the dim seas of sleep, and somehow I can feel
my sanity rocking as my sanity rocks in my dream. Back and forth it
totters and sways until the motion takes on a physical aspect and I in
my dream am swaying from side to side. Not always is the sensation the
same, but I tell you, if that horror ever raises its terrible shape
and leers at me, if I ever see the fearful thing in my dream, I shall
become stark, wild insane." There was a restless movement among the
rest. "God! but what a prospect!" he muttered. "To be insane and forever
dreaming that same dream, night and day! But there I stand, and
centuries go by, but at last a dim gray light begins to steal through
the windows, the swishing dies away in the distance and presently a
red, haggard sun climbs the eastern sky. Then I turn about and gaze
into a mirror--and my hair has become perfectly white. I stagger to
the door and fling it wide. There is nothing in sight but a wide track
leading away down the hill through the grasslands--in the opposite
direction from that which I would take toward the coast. And with a
shriek of maniacal laughter, I dash down the hill and race across the
grasslands. I race until I drop from exhaustion, then I lie until I can
stagger up and go on. "All day I keep this up, with superhuman effort, spurred on by the
horror behind me. And ever as I hurl myself forward on weakening legs,
ever as I lie gasping for breath, I watch the sun with a terrible
eagerness. How swiftly the sun travels when a man races it for life! A
losing race it is, as I know when I watch the sun sinking toward the
skyline, and the hills which I had hoped to gain ere sundown seemingly
as far away as ever." His voice was lowered and instinctively we leaned toward him; he was
gripping the chair arms and the blood was seeping from his lip. "Then the sun sets and the shadows come and I stagger on and fall and
rise and reel on again. And I laugh, laugh, laugh! Then I cease, for
the moon comes up and throws the grasslands in ghostly and silvery
relief. The light is white across the land, though the moon itself is
like blood. And I look back the way I have come--and far--back"--all
of us leaned farther toward him, our hair a-prickle; his voice came
like a ghostly whisper--"far back--I--see--the--grass--waving. There is
no breeze, but the tall grass parts and sways in the moonlight, in a
narrow, sinuous line--far away, but nearing every instant." His voice
died away. Somebody broke the ensuing stillness: "And then----?" "Then I awake. Never yet have I seen the foul monster. But that is the
dream that haunts me, and from which I have wakened, in my childhood
screaming, in my manhood in cold sweat.