The Red Room

“Eight-and-twenty years,” said I, “I have lived, and never a ghost have I seen as yet.”

(“This night of all nights!” said the old woman.)

At the door I turned and looked at them, and saw they were all close together, dark against the firelight, staring at me over their shoulders, with an intent expression on their ancient faces.

I must confess that the oddness of these three old pensioners in whose charge her ladyship had left the castle, and the deep-toned, old-fashioned furniture of the housekeeper’s room in which they forgathered, affected me in spite of my efforts to keep myself at a matter of fact phase.

Here it was, thought I, that my predecessor was found, and the memory of that story gave me a sudden twinge of apprehension.

I resolved to make a systematic examination of the place at once, and dispel the fanciful suggestions of its obscurity before they obtained a hold upon me.

My candle was a little tongue of light in its vastness, that failed to pierce the opposite end of the room, and left an ocean of mystery and suggestion beyond its island of light.

I was now almost frantic with the horror of the coming darkness, and my self-possession deserted me. I leaped panting and dishevelled from candle to candle in a vain struggle against the remorseless advance.

“The worst of all the things that haunt poor mortal man,” said I; “and that is, in all its nakedness—Fear!”

There is Fear in that room of hers—black Fear, and there will be—so long as this house of sin endures.