It was

closed as usual. I then noticed with a sudden sensation of dismay that

the surface of the freshly fallen snow was unbroken. My own foot-marks

were the only ones to be seen anywhere, and though I retraced my way

to tile point where I had first seen the man, I could find no

slightest impression of any other boots. Feeling creepy and

uncomfortable, I went upstairs, and was glad to get into bed.

Nov. 28.—With the fastening of my bedroom door the disturbances

ceased. I am convinced that I walked in my sleep. Probably I untied my

toe and then tied it up again. The fancied security of the locked door

would alone have been enough to restore sleep to my troubled spirit

and enable me to rest quietly.

Last night, however, the annoyance was suddenly renewed another and

more aggressive form. I woke in the darkness with the impression that

someone was standing outside my bedroom door listening. As I became

more awake the impression grew into positive knowledge.

Though there was no appreciable sound of moving or breathing, I was

so convinced of the propinquity of a listener that I crept out of bed

and approached the door. As I did so there came.faintly from the next

room the unmistakable sound of someone retreating stealthily across the

floor. Yet, as I heard it, it was neither the tread of a man nor a

regular footstep, but rather, it seemed to me, a confused sort of

crawling, almost as of someone on his hands and knees.

I unlocked the door in less than a second, and passed quickly into

the front room, and I could feel, as by the subtlest imaginable

vibrations upon my nerves, that the spot I was standing in had just

that instant been vacated! The Listener had moved; he was now behind

the other door, standing in the passage. Yet this door was also

closed. I moved swiftly, and as silently as possible, across the

floor, and turned the handle. A cold rush of air met me from the

passage and sent shiver after shiver down my back. There was no one in

the doorway; there was no one on the little landing; there was no one

moving down the staircase. Yet I had been so quick that this midnight

Listener could not be very far away, and I felt that if I persevered I

should eventually come face to face with him. And the courage that

came so opportunely to overcome my nervousness and horror seemed born

of the unwelcome conviction that it was somehow necessary for my

safety as well as my sanity that I should find this intruder and force

his secret from him. For was it not the intent action of his mind upon

my own, in concentrated listening, that had awakened me with such a

vivid realisation of his presence?p

Advancing across the narrow landing, I peered down into the well of

the little house. There was nothing to be seen; no one was moving in

the darkness. How cold the oilcloth was to my bare feet.

I cannot say what it was that suddenly drew my eyes upwards. I only

know that, without apparent reason, I looked up and saw a person about

half-way up the next turn of the stairs, leaning forward over the

balustrade and staring straight into my face. It was a man. He appeared

to be clinging to the rail rather than standing on the stairs. The

gloom made it impossible to see much beyond the general outline, but

the head and shoulders were seemingly enormous, and stood sharply

silhouetted against the skylight in the roof immediately above.