I will light my
candle, and read, awhile; perhaps, I shall be able to sleep, after a
time. For a few moments, I grope; then my hand touches the box; but, as
I open it, I am startled, to see a phosphorescent speck of fire, shining
amid the darkness. I put out my other hand, and touch it. It is on my
wrist. With a feeling of vague alarm, I strike a light, hurriedly, and
look; but can see nothing, save a tiny scratch. 'Fancy!' I mutter, with a half sigh of relief. Then the match burns my
finger, and I drop it, quickly. As I fumble for another, the thing
shines out again. I know, now, that it is no fancy. This time, I light
the candle, and examine the place, more closely. There is a slight,
greenish discoloration 'round the scratch. I am puzzled and worried. Then a thought comes to me. I remember the morning after the Thing
appeared. I remember that the dog licked my hand. It was this one, with
the scratch on it; though I have not been even conscious of the
abasement, until now. A horrible fear has come to me. It creeps into my
brain--the dog's wound, shines at night. With a dazed feeling, I sit
down on the side of the bed, and try to think; but cannot. My brain
seems numbed with the sheer horror of this new fear. Time moves on, unheeded. Once, I rouse up, and try to persuade myself
that I am mistaken; but it is no use. In my heart, I have no doubt. Hour after hour, I sit in the darkness and silence, and shiver,
hopelessly.... The day has come and gone, and it is night again. This morning, early, I shot the dog, and buried it, away among the
bushes. My sister is startled and frightened; but I am desperate. Besides, it is better so. The foul growth had almost hidden its left
side. And I--the place on my wrist has enlarged, perceptibly. Several
times, I have caught myself muttering prayers--little things learnt as a
child. God, Almighty God, help me! I shall go mad. Six days, and I have eaten nothing. It is night. I am sitting in my
chair. Ah, God! I wonder have any ever felt the horror of life that I
have come to know? I am swathed in terror. I feel ever the burning of
this dread growth. It has covered all my right arm and side, and is
beginning to creep up my neck. Tomorrow, it will eat into my face. I
shall become a terrible mass of living corruption. There is no escape. Yet, a thought has come to me, born of a sight of the gun-rack, on the
other side of the room. I have looked again--with the strangest of
feelings. The thought grows upon me. God, Thou knowest, Thou must know,
that death is better, aye, better a thousand times than This. This! Jesus, forgive me, but I cannot live, cannot, cannot! I dare not! I am
beyond all help--there is nothing else left. It will, at least, spare
me that final horror.... I think I must have been dozing. I am very weak, and oh! so miserable,
so miserable and tired--tired. The rustle of the paper, tries my brain. My hearing seems preternaturally sharp. I will sit awhile and think....

"Hush! I hear something, down--down in the cellars. It is a creaking
sound. My God, it is the opening of the great, oak trap. What can be
doing that? The scratching of my pen deafens me ... I must listen.... There are steps on the stairs; strange padding steps, that come up and
nearer.... Jesus, be merciful to me, an old man. There is something
fumbling at the door-handle. O God, help me now! Jesus--The door is
opening--slowly. Somethi--"

That is all[16]



_XXVII_

CONCLUSION

I put down the Manuscript, and glanced across at Tonnison: he was
sitting, staring out into the dark. I waited a minute; then I spoke. "Well?" I said. He turned, slowly, and looked at me. His thoughts seemed to have gone
out of him into a great distance. "Was he mad?" I asked, and indicated the MS., with a half nod. Tonnison stared at me, unseeingly, a moment; then, his wits came back to
him, and, suddenly, he comprehended my question. "No!" he said. I opened my lips, to offer a contradictory opinion; for my sense of the
saneness of things, would not allow me to take the story literally; then
I shut them again, without saying anything. Somehow, the certainty in
Tonnison's voice affected my doubts. I felt, all at once, less assured;
though I was by no means convinced as yet. After a few moments' silence, Tonnison rose, stiffly, and began to
undress. He seemed disinclined to talk; so I said nothing; but followed
his example. I was weary; though still full of the story I had
just read. Somehow, as I rolled into my blankets, there crept into my mind a memory
of the old gardens, as we had seen them. I remembered the odd fear that
the place had conjured up in our hearts; and it grew upon me, with
conviction, that Tonnison was right. It was very late when we rose--nearly midday; for the greater part of
the night had been spent in reading the MS.

Tonnison was grumpy, and I felt out of sorts. It was a somewhat dismal
day, and there was a touch of chilliness in the air. There was no
mention of going out fishing on either of our parts. We got dinner, and,
after that, just sat and smoked in silence. Presently, Tonnison asked for the Manuscript: I handed it to him, and he
spent most of the afternoon in reading it through by himself. It was while he was thus employed, that a thought came to me:--

"What do you say to having another look at--?" I nodded my head down
stream. Tonnison looked up. "Nothing!" he said, abruptly; and, somehow, I was
less annoyed, than relieved, at his answer. After that, I left him alone. A little before teatime, he looked up at me, curiously. "Sorry, old chap, if I was a bit short with you just now;" (just now,
indeed! he had not spoken for the last three hours) "but I would not go
there again," and he indicated with his head, "for anything that you
could offer me. Ugh!" and he put down that history of a man's terror and
hope and despair. The next morning, we rose early, and went for our accustomed swim: we
had partly shaken off the depression of the previous day; and so, took
our rods when we had finished breakfast, and spent the day at our
favorite sport. After that day, we enjoyed our holiday to the utmost; though both of us
looked forward to the time when our driver should come; for we were
tremendously anxious to inquire of him, and through him among the people
of the tiny hamlet, whether any of them could give us information about
that strange garden, lying away by itself in the heart of an almost
unknown tract of country. At last, the day came, on which we expected the driver to come across
for us. He arrived early, while we were still abed; and, the first thing
we knew, he was at the opening of the tent, inquiring whether we had had
good sport. We replied in the affirmative; and then, both together,
almost in the same breath, we asked the question that was uppermost in
our minds:--Did he know anything about an old garden, and a great pit,
and a lake, situated some miles away, down the river; also, had he ever
heard of a great house thereabouts?