A cold shiver ran down Mr. Vance's spine, and just for a
moment he felt afraid, terribly afraid; but he quickly composed
himself--it was nothing but an illusion--there was no shadow there in
reality--he had only to turn round, and the thing would be gone. It
was amusing--entertaining. He would wait and see what happened.
The shadow moved. It moved slowly through the air like some huge
spider, or odd-shaped bird. He would not acknowledge that there was
anything sinister about it--only something droll--excruciatingly droll.
Yet it did not make him laugh. When it had drawn a little nearer, he
tried to diagnose it, to discover its material counterpart in one of
the objects around him; but he was obliged to acknowledge his attempts
were failures--there was nothing in the room in the least degree like
it. A vague feeling of uneasiness gradually crept over him--was the
thing the shadow of something with which he was familiar, but could not
just then recall to mind--something he feared--something that was
sinister? He struggled against the idea, he dismissed it as absurd; but
it returned--returned, and took deeper root as the shadow drew nearer.
He wished the house was not quite so silent--that he could hear some
indication of life--anything--anything for companionship, and to rid
him of the oppressive, the very oppressive, sense of loneliness and
isolation.
Again a thrill of terror ran through him.
"Look here!" he exclaimed aloud, glad to hear the sound of his own
voice.
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