The strange sound, like a faint metallic click, repeated itself several times.
“D—n it! I don’t like to hear the thing. But there will be a sudden death.”
Time after time Monk heard at intervals the same faint sound, like the ticking of a watch for a minute, and it made his blood run cold. He found himself listening to it with terror, and in the long silence, always straining his ears to catch it, always expecting, dreading its repetition, until the thing grew more horrible to him than a nightmare. Sometimes he would fall into a doze, and, wakening with a start, hear it, while cold perspiration broke in drops on his forehead.
It grew intolerable. He swore he would find the thing and kill it, but it mocked him in his search. The sound seemed to come from the table, but when he stood beside the table it ticked so distinctly at the window that he thought he could put his finger on the spot; but when he tried to, it had changed again, and sounded at the head of his bed. Sometimes it seemed close at his right, and he turned only to hear it on the other side, then in front, then behind. Again and again he searched, and swore in his exasperation and disappointment.
The sound became exaggerated by his distempered imagination, till he trembled lest some one else should hear this omen which so plainly foretold his anticipated crime. Once an hour dragged by, and his unseen tormentor was silent. His eyes, that had glittered with deathly hatred, now wore a startled look, and wandered restlessly about the room.
An owl, that perched on the topmost branch of a high tree near by, screamed loud and long. A bat flew in at the open window, banged against the ceiling, and darted out.
Monk shivered. Leaning his head between his arms, he drummed nervously on the table with his fingers. Instantly the clear metallic click sounded again. He looked up, and a strange light broke into his face, a mixed expression of amazement and fright. For a moment he seemed stupefied, then raising his hand he tapped lightly against the wood with his finger-nail. The last tap had not died until it was answered by what seemed like a fainter repetition of itself.
Uttering a fearful oath, Monk recoiled from the table, but, as if drawn back and held by a weird fascination, he sat an hour striking the hard surface with his nails, and pausing for the response that each time came clear and distinct.
Gray streaks crept along the east, and quivered like a faded fringe bordering the black canopy. Still he sat tapping, but no answer came. He waited, listened vainly; no echo, no sound, and the dull, hueless light of the cloudy morning glimmered at his window. Then he threw himself on his bed, and fell into restless slumbers.
A damp thick fog enveloped the houses in its slimy embrace. At nightfall its reeking folds gathered themselves from the ground, and a noiseless drizzle came sullenly down.