“No, Tom, don’t go!” There was terror in his voice, and such pleading that it wrung my heart.
“You’ve stood it alone here ten years,” I protested. “And now—”
“It’s not that,” he said. “But if you go, you will never come back.”
“Is that all the faith you have in me?”
“I’ve got faith, Tom. But if you go, you’ll never come back.”
I decided that I must humor the vagaries of a sick man.
“All right,” I agreed. “I’ll not go. Anyway, not for some time.”
October 12.—What is it that hangs over this house like a cloud? For I can no longer deny that there is something—something indescribably oppressive. It seems to pervade the whole neighborhood.
Are all the houses on this block vacant? If not, why do I never see children playing in the street? Why are passers-by so rare? And why, when from the front window I do catch a glimpse of one, is he hastening away as fast as possible?