And thus the surprise he felt was mild and far from disconcerting.

“I’m here again!” was the kind of thought he had. It was how he got

here that caused the faint surprise, apparently. He no longer

swaggered, however, but walked carefully, and half on tiptoe, holding

the ivory handle of the cane with a kind of affectionate respect. And

as he advanced, the light closed softly up behind him, obliterating

the way by which he had come. But this he did not know, because he did

not look behind him. He only looked in front, where the corridor

stretched its silvery length towards the great chamber where he knew

the cane must be surrendered. The person who had preceded him down

this ancient corridor, passing through the green baize door just before

he reached it, this person, his father’s father, now stood in that

great chamber, waiting to receive his own. Tim knew it as surely as he

knew he breathed. At the far end he even made out the larger patch of

silvery light which marked its gaping doorway.

There was another thing he knew as well—-that this corridor he

moved along between rooms with fast-closed doors, was the Nightmare

Corridor; often and often he had traversed it; each room was occupied.

“This is the Nightmare Passage,” he whispered to himself, “but I know

the Ruler—it doesn’t matter. None of them can get out or do

anything.” He heard them, none the less, inside, as he passed by; he

heard them scratching to get out. The feeling of security made him

reckless; he took unnecessary risks; he brushed the panels as he

passed. And the love of keen sensation for its own sake, the desire to

feel “an awful thrill,” tempted him once so sharply that he raised his

stick and poked a fast-shut door with it!.He was not prepared for the

result, but he gained the sensation and the thrill. For the door

opened with instant swiftness half an inch, a hand emerged, caught the

stick and tried to draw it in. Tim sprang back as if he had been

struck. He pulled at the ivory handle with all his strength, but his

strength was less than nothing. He tried to shout, but his voice had

gone. A terror of the moon came over him, for he was unable to loosen

his hold of the handle; his fingers had become a part of it. An

appalling weakness turned him helpless. He was dragged inch by inch

towards the fearful door. The end of the stick was already through the

narrow crack. He could not see the hand that pulled, but he knew it

was terrific. He understood now why the world was strange, why horses

galloped furiously, and why trains whistled as they raced through

stations. All the comedy and terror of nightmare gripped his heart

with pincers made of ice. The disproportion was abominable. The final

collapse rushed over him when, without a sign of warning, the door

slammed silently, and between the jamb and the wall the cane was

crushed as flat as if it were a bulrush. So irresistible was the force

behind the door that the solid stick just went flat as a stalk of a

bulrush.

He looked at it.