Horror rooted me to the spot.
In the bed lay the two brothers side by side; two fearfully distorted corpses. One of them lay on his back, but with his face looking down, and in his bald head the head of the nail shone in the moonlight like a dark blue spot; the other brother lay beside him with his head turned towards the sky.
Horror, I say, paralyzed me. I had not strength to move a limb. I would have cried out, but I had no voice. I would have seized the bell-rope, but my hand was powerless. I would have fled, but my legs weighed me down like lead. My chest was oppressed, my legs were benumbed. At last, with a most desperate effort of my will, and after frightful torments, I pronounced something or other—and immediately awoke.
Those who have suffered from nightmare will understand what a torture it is under the circumstances to utter a word.
It was morning, and the sun was shining through the tall poplars. There, too, I was lying on the sofa in front of the closed door, where I had laid down in order not to fall asleep.
The candles really had burnt down to their sockets, and the teacup was really empty. However, I was inclined to believe that I had put nothing into it the night before, and that tea, rum, and cognac had all been simply dreamt.
But—now comes the most terrible part of this ghost story.
What had been happening in the niche all this time?
The curtain was precisely as I had sketched it, not a wrinkle of a fold had been changed in it.
Therefore, nobody could have laid hands upon it.