about talking of it. Nothing of the sort has happened to me
before. Well, about eleven o'clock last night, or after, I took my
candle and set out for my room. I had a book in my other hand--I
always read something for a few minutes before I drop off to sleep. A
dangerous habit: I don't recommend it: but I know how to manage my
light and my bed curtains. Now then, first, as I stepped out of my
study into the great half that's next to it, and shut the door, my
candle went out. I supposed I had clapped the door behind me too
quick, and made a draught, and I was annoyed, for I'd no tinder-box
nearer than my bedroom. But I knew my way well enough, and went on.
The next thing was that my book was struck out of my hand in the dark:
if I said twitched out of my hand it would better express the
sensation. It fell on the floor. I picked it up, and went on, more
annoyed than before, and a little startled. But as you know, that hall
has many windows without curtains, and in summer nights like these it
is easy to see not only where the furniture is, but whether there's
any one or anything moving, and there was no one--nothing of the kind.
So on I went through the hall and through the audit chamber next to
it, which also has big windows, and then into the bedrooms which lead
to my own, where the curtains were drawn, and I had to go slower
because of steps here and there. It was in the second of those rooms
that I nearly got my _quietus_. The moment I opened the door of it I
felt there was something wrong. I thought twice, I confess, whether I
shouldn't turn back and find another way there is to my room rather
than go through that one. Then I was ashamed of myself, and thought
what people call better of it, though I don't know about "better" in
this case. If I was to describe my experience exactly, I should say
this: there was a dry, light, rustling sound all over the room as I
went in, and then (you remember it was perfectly dark) something
seemed to rush at me, and there was--I don't know how to put it--a
sensation of long thin arms, or legs, or feelers, all about my face,
and neck, and body. Very little strength in them, there seemed to be,
but Spearman, I don't think I was ever more horrified or disgusted in
all my life, that I remember: and it does take something to put me
out. I roared out as loud as I could, and flung away my candle at
random, and, knowing I was near the window, I tore at the curtain and
somehow let in enough li