“If there’s any real reason why you should sleep upstairs you can, but you must tell me first what you’re afraid of.”
The negress leaned toward her, whispering:
“It’s him—that devil-man, George; he a voodoo and he’s practisin’ black magic down there. I cain’t sleep in the same paht of the house. I’m goin’ to give notice in the mawnin’—please, Mis’ Ruth, take me up with yo’—”
For a moment Ruth did not know what to say. She knew that all negroes are superstitious, but looking into the rolling eyes of Amy, there in the midnight silence of the house, she was not able to laugh.
“I’m surprised at you, Amy. I thought you were more sensible. What’s George doing? He hasn’t tried to hurt you, has he?”
“No, not me, he ain’t goin’ hu’t me—I don’t expec’ you-all to understand. I don’t care whether you understands or not, jus’ let me go up with yo’.”
“What’s George doing?” demanded Ruth again. She would much rather have given consent at once and ended the argument, but she could not control a feeling both of curiosity and nervousness, and was now protesting more against her own fears than those of Amy.
“He tol’ me to go to baid. He orders me roun’ li’e I was his nigger, and I went, but I could see him through the keyhole—he’s in our settin’-room—it’s between his room and mine. There’s another do’ to my room and I wen’ right out through it. I didn’t waste no time. But don’t you-all try to stop him. He’s at black magic—oh-o-o-o-o-o—”
Her tense whisper trailed off into a suppressed wail.
“Come with me,” said Ruth with sudden determination. “I’ll see for myself.”