“H’m!” he repeated as he lay back.
For some time after the light had expired he lay wide-eyed. No further sound came from stairs or attic. In the solid blackness he discerned nothing. At length he grinned.
“Guess I’ve laid you for the night, Mister Ha’nt,” he whispered.
As if in answer, the bed quivered again. The feeling was as if some man standing beside him had rested a hand on the headboard—a barely perceptible tremor. He had not moved a muscle. Nor, suddenly frozen, did he move one now. He lay absolutely still, only his eyes moving.
Another quiver came. With it came a faint dry rustle. Nerves and straining ears alike flashed the same message: it was the corn-husk mattress now! The movement, the sound, were beside him, almost under him—as if a bodiless man were laying himself down to rest side by side with the live one!
With lightning speed Douglas turned and struck at the Thing. His knuckles crashed against the old cloth and its content of husks. Again he struck, this time into the air. With a dive he launched himself at the chair—clutched matches—scratched them. The yellow blaze showed that the room was empty of all life but his own.
Scrambling out, he lit fresh matches and scanned the floor under the bed. Then he wheeled and looked all about the outer room. All was as before.
The matches burned his fingers, and he dropped them. Again blackness and vacancy engulfed him. Groping, he found the bed and lay down. Then he reached out, found his gun, and laid it beside him. And this time he did not roll up in his blankets. He only draped one of them loosely over him, and kept a hand on the gun.
“Come again, Mister Ha’nt,” he muttered.
Only the monotonous chorus outside answered. For a long time he lay waiting, his nerves gradually relaxing. At length, still loosely holding the weapon, he dozed away into slumber.