She pressed closer to me, and looked fearfully over her shoulder.
“It does the same,” she whispered, gulping. “It wasn’t the machine at all. It’s the place—itself—that’s haunted.”
I confess a tremor ran through me. The room was dusking—hugging itself into secrecy over its own sordid details. Out near the window, the type-writer, like a watchful sentient thing, seemed grinning at us with all its ivory teeth. She had carried it there, that it might be as far from herself as possible.
“First let me light the gas,” I said, gently but resolutely detaching her hands.
“There is none,” she murmured.
None. It was beyond her means. This poor creature kept her deadly vigils with a couple of candles. I lit them—they served but to make the gloom more visible—and went to pull down the blind.
“O, take care of it!” she whispered fearfully, meaning the type-writer. “It is awful to shut out the daylight so soon.”
God in heaven, what she must have suffered! But I admitted nothing, and took her determinedly in hand.
“Now,” I said, returning to her, “tell me plainly and distinctly what it is that the machine does.”
She did not answer. I repeated my question.