She handed him the photograph.
“That’s a picture of it,” she said.
It was a kodak “snapshot” of an aged man with flowing white hair and a patriarchal beard. Turning it over, Barry saw written on the back, “Willard Clayberg, December, 1922.”
“It’s Mr. Clayberg’s last picture,” said Mrs. Peyton. “I obtained it this morning from one of his grandsons. It was taken last winter, shortly before the dreadful tragedy at our house.”
“Getting back to last night?” reminded Barry.
“Oh, yes! Well, the thing sat there, quite silent and motionless, staring at me through the moonlight. Its face was the same as the one in that picture, only, somehow, it didn’t seem real. It was peculiarly pallid and lifeless—like the face of a dead person.
“Finally I found my voice and cried out: ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
“Instantly the thing rose from the desk, without making a particle of sound, and glided swiftly and silently across the room—and disappeared!
“That seemed to revive my courage—the thought that I had frightened it away—and I sprang from bed and ran to the door.
“The door was still locked! I tried the windows. They were still bolted. Neither the door nor the windows had been touched. Everything in the room, in fact, was just as I had left it upon going to bed.