Had they life, as we understand
life, or were they ghouls? These thoughts flashed through my brain, as I
stood in the dark, searching my pockets for matches. I had the box in my
hand now, and, striking a light, I stepped to the trap door, and closed
it. Then, I piled the stones back upon it; after which, I made my way
out from the cellars.
And so, I suppose the water goes on, thundering down into that
bottomless hell-pit. Sometimes, I have an inexplicable desire to go down
to the great cellar, open the trap, and gaze into the impenetrable,
spray-damp darkness. At times, the desire becomes almost overpowering,
in its intensity. It is not mere curiosity, that prompts me; but more as
though some unexplained influence were at work. Still, I never go; and
intend to fight down the strange longing, and crush it; even as I would
the unholy thought of self-destruction.
This idea of some intangible force being exerted, may seem reasonless.
Yet, my instinct warns me, that it is not so. In these things, reason
seems to me less to be trusted than instinct.
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