I tried to speak, to scream
wildly for help; my mouth was parched, my tongue refused to obey.
I could not utter a cry, and, indeed, who could have heard me,
alone as I was in that solitary chamber, with no living neighbor,
and the picture-gallery between me and any aid that even the
loudest, most piercing shriek could summon. And the storm that
howled without would have drowned my voice, even if help had been
at hand. To call aloud--to demand who was there--alas! how
useless, how perilous! If the intruder were a robber, my outcries
would but goad him to fury; but what robber would act thus? As for
a trick, that seemed impossible. And yet, WHAT lay by my side, now
wholly unseen? I strove to pray aloud as there rushed on my memory
a flood of weird legends--the dreaded yet fascinating lore of my
childhood. I had heard and read of the spirits of the wicked men
forced to revisit the scenes of their earthly crimes--of demons
that lurked in certain accursed spots--of the ghoul and vampire of
the east, stealing amidst the graves they rifled for their ghostly
banquets; and then I shuddered as I gazed on the blank darkness
where I knew it lay.
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