which he holds for
me. I try not to show my fear in front of him, but I feel that,
animal-like, he senses it. I refer to the reflection as "he," "him,"
or "it," for I cannot bring myself to admit that the thing in the
mirror is my reflection. But I scarcely dare write what I do believe
it to be. I have always been skeptical about such things as "soul,"
but when I look into the mirror--God help me!

_Night_: I am spending much time in my room now. I've spent most of
the day here. This thing is beginning to hold a morbid fascination for
me. I can't stay away for any length of time. I wish I could. My wife
is beginning to worry about me. She says I look pale. She tells me I
need a rest--a long rest. If I could only confide in her! In anyone!
But I can't. I must fight and wait this out alone.

Aug. 5th. There has been little or no change in our relationship. He
still remains aloof.

Today my wife came to my room to see how I was feeling. She stood in
such a position that looking into the mirror was unavoidable. She
stood before the mirror arranging her hair. She noticed nothing out of
the ordinary, but he was still there. Damn him! He was still there,
and this time he snarled in triumph at me.

One other remarkable thing. My wife hadn't seen the thing there in the
mirror, but neither had I seen her reflection. It was the same with
Peter, my valet, and Anna, the maid. Anna would have dusted the mirror
had I not stopped her. I must take no chances. A close scrutiny might
reveal him to them, and they must not know--they must not know!

* * * * *

Aug. 6th. Three days. Three days of hell! That's what it has been
since I discovered that damned thing. How he tortures me! He has begun
to mock me. When he thinks he has given an extraordinarily clever
impersonation he shakes with laughter. I can't hear him laugh. But I
see him. And that's worse. I can't stand it much longer!

Aug. 7th. We never know how much we can stand until we go through some
ordeal such as I am now undergoing. But I feel that my nerve is near
the breaking-point.

I have locked the door of my room. Anna leaves a tray outside my door.
Sometimes I eat the food she brings, but more often I don't. My wife
begs me to let her in, but I tell her to go away. I'm afraid to tell
her--I'm afraid to tell anyone. I know what they do with people who
have "hallucinations". No, I can't tell. Neither can I leave. God
knows why, but I can'