"I can't understand," I told him, "where the thing went. It was there, and the next instant it wasn't. And yet it didn't go away."
"Turn off your light," Rhodes said quickly. "Turn it off, Bill."
"Great Zeus, what for? You'd better have your revolver ready."
"Revolver fiddlesticks! Off with it, Bill; off with the light!"
The light went off. And look! There it was again, and almost directly over us. It was not descending now but was hovering, hovering, as though watching, waiting. Waiting for what? And it seemed, too, to thrust out arms or tentacula. And look at that! Something started to drop from it—phosphorescence (I shall call it that) dropping to the floor, where it writhed and crawled about like a mass of serpents. Writhed and crawled and grew dimmer and dimmer, faded, faded.
We sat staring at this mysterious, inexplicable phenomenon in amazement, fascination and horror.
"What in the world can it be?" I asked, my voice a whisper.
"Who," returned Rhodes, "would ever have dreamed of such a thing as that?"
"I'm afraid," I told him, a shudder passing through me, "that our revolvers can't hurt a thing like that. It seems to be watching us. Look! Aren't those eyes—eyes staring at us, moving?"
"Eyes? Watching us? Eyes moving? Oh, Lord, Bill!" said Rhodes.