aring at the open door of his cell. The opening was black, deserted,
like the mouth of a deep tunnel, leading to hell. And then, suddenly,
from the gloom beyond that opening, came an almost noiseless, padded
footfall!"

* * * * *

This time there was no doubt of it. The book fell from my fingers,
dropped to the floor with a clatter. Yet even through the sound of its
falling, I heard that fearful sound--the shuffle of a living foot! I sat
motionless, staring with bloodless face at the door of room 4167. And as
I stared, the sound came again, and again--_the slow tread of dragging
footsteps, approaching along the black corridor without_!

I got to my feet like an automaton, swaying heavily. Every drop of
courage ebbed from my soul as I stood there, one hand clutching the
table, waiting....

And then, with an effort, I moved forward. My hand was outstretched to
grasp the wooden handle of the door. And--I did not have the courage.
Like a cowed beast I crept back to my place and slumped down on the
stool, my eyes still transfixed in a mute stare of terror.

I waited. For more than half an hour I waited, motionless. Not a sound
stirred in the passage beyond that closed barrier. Not a suggestion of
any living presence came to me. Then, leaning back against the wall with
a harsh laugh, I wiped away the cold moisture that had trickled over my
forehead into my eyes.

It was another five minutes before I picked up the book again. You call
me a fool for continuing it? A fool? I tell you, even a story of horror
is more comfort than a room of grotesque shadows and silence. Even a
printed page is better than grim reality!

* * * * *

And so I read on. The story was one of suspense, madness. For the next
two pages I read a cunning description of the prisoner's mental
reaction. Strangely enough, it conformed precisely with my own.

"Fulton's head had fallen to his chest," the script read. "For an
endless while he did not stir, did not dare to lift his eyes. And then,
after more than an hour of silent agony and suspense, the boy's head
came up mechanically. Came up--and suddenly jerked rigid. A horrible
scream burst from his dry lips as he stared--stared like a dead man--at
the black entrance to his cell. There, standing without motion in the
opening, stood a shrouded figure of death. Empty eyes, glaring with
awful hate, bored into his own. Great arms, bony and rotte