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Hodgson, William Hope, 1877-1918

"The House on the Borderland"

I looked to my left, and saw my old chair. The thought of
sitting in it brought a faint sense of comfort to my bewildered
wretchedness. Yet, because I was so weary and old and tired, I would
scarcely brace my mind to do anything but stand, and wish myself past
those few yards. I rocked, as I stood. The floor, even, seemed a place
for rest; but the dust lay so thick and sleepy and black. I turned, with
a great effort of will, and made toward my chair. I reached it, with a
groan of thankfulness. I sat down.
Everything about me appeared to be growing dim. It was all so strange
and unthought of. Last night, I was a comparatively strong, though
elderly man; and now, only a few hours later--! I looked at the little
dust-heap that had once been Pepper. Hours! and I laughed, a feeble,
bitter laugh; a shrill, cackling laugh, that shocked my dimming senses.
For a while, I must have dozed. Then I opened my eyes, with a start.
Somewhere across the room, there had been a muffled noise of something
falling.


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