"Sister," he whispered, "I've shut my eyes now. You must stand with your back to the windows—between them, or else you'll think it's our own shadows—and watch."
I did as he said, and I had not long to wait.
It came—from the farther end, the second condemned door, whence the winding stair mounted to the attics—it seemed to begin or at least take form there. Creeping along, just as Dormy said—stealthily but steadily—right down to the other extremity of the long room. And then it grew blacker—more concentrated—and out from the vague outline came two bony hands, and, as the child had said, too, you could see that they were feeling—all over the upper part of the door.
I stood and watched. I wondered afterwards at my own courage, if courage it was. It was the shadow of a small man, I felt sure. The head seemed large in proportion, and—yes—it—the original of the shadow—was evidently covered by an antique wig. Half mechanically I glanced round—as if in search of the material body that must be there. But no; there was nothing, literally nothing, that could throw this extraordinary shadow.
Of this I was instantly convinced; and here I may as well say once for all, that never was it maintained by any one, however previously sceptical, who had fully witnessed the whole, that it could be accounted for by ordinary, or, as people say, "natural" causes. There was this peculiarity at least about our ghost.
Though I had fast hold of his hand, I had almost forgotten Dormy—I seemed in a trance.
Suddenly he spoke, though in a whisper.
"You see it, sister, I know you do," he said.
"Wait, wait a minute, dear," I managed to reply in the same tone, though I could not have explained why I waited.
Dormer had said that after a time—after the ghastly and apparently fruitless feeling all over the door—"it"—"went out".