I was in the act of turning to go in again when a sound overhead

caught my ear. It was a very faint sound, not unlike the sigh of wind;

yet it could not have been the wind, for the night was still as the

grave. Though it was not repeated, I resolved to go upstairs and see

for myself what it all meant. Two senses had been affected—touch and

hearing—and I could not believe that I had been deceived. So, with a

lighted candle, I went stealthily forth on my unpleasant journey into

the upper regions of this queer little old house.

On the first landing there was only one door, and it was locked. On

the second there was also only one door, but when I turned the handle

it opened. There came forth to meet me the chill musty air that is

characteristic of a long unoccupied room. With it there came an

indescribable odour. I use the adjective advisedly. Though very faint,

diluted as it were, it was nevertheless an odour that made my gorge

rise. I had never smelt anything like it before, and I cannot describe

it.

The room was small and square, close under the roof, with a sloping

ceiling and two tiny windows. It was cold as the grave, without a

shred of carpet or a stick of furniture. The icy.atmosphere and the

nameless odour combined to make the room abominable to me, and, after

lingering a moment to see that it contained no cupboards or corners

into which a person might have crept for concealment, I made haste to

shut the door, and went downstairs again to bed.

Evidently I had been deceived after all as to the noise.

In the night I had a foolish but very vivid dream. I dreamed that

the landlady and another person, dark and not properly visible,

entered my room on all fours, followed by a horde of immense cats.

They attacked me as I lay in bed, and murdered me, and then dragged my

body upstairs and deposited it on the floor of that cold little square

room under the roof.

Nov. 11.—Since my talk with Emily—the unfinished talk—I have

hardly once set eyes on her. Mrs. Monson now attends wholly to my

wants. As usual, she does everything exactly as I don’t like it done.

It is all too utterly trivial to mention, but it is exceedingly

irritating. Like small doses of morphine often repeated, she has

finally a cumulative effect.

Nov. 12.—This morning I woke early, and came into the front room

to get a book, meaning to read in bed till it was time to get tip.

Emily was laying the fire.

“Good morning!” I said cheerfully.