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Jonathan Harker’s Journal

           ItwasstartlinglyliketheimageconveyedtomeinDr.Seward’sdiaryoftheopeningofMissWestenra’stomb,Ifancythatthesameideaseemedtostriketheothers,forwithoneaccordtheyshrankback. TheProfessorwasthefirsttomoveforward,andsteppedintotheopendoor. 

           "Inmanustuas,Domine!"hesaid,crossinghimselfashepassedoverthethreshold. Weclosedthedoorbehindus,lestwhenweshouldhavelitourlampsweshouldpossiblyattractattentionfromtheroad. TheProfessorcarefullytriedthelock,lestwemightnotbeabletoopenitfromwithinshouldwebeinahurrymakingourexit. Thenwealllitourlampsandproceededonoursearch. 

           Thelightfromthetinylampsfellinallsortsofoddforms,astherayscrossedeachother,ortheopacityofourbodiesthrewgreatshadows. Icouldnotformylifegetawayfromthefeelingthattherewassomeoneelseamongstus. Isupposeitwastherecollection,sopowerfullybroughthometomebythegrimsurroundings,ofthatterribleexperienceinTransylvania. Ithinkthefeelingwascommontousall,forInoticedthattheotherskeptlookingovertheirshouldersateverysoundandeverynewshadow,justasIfeltmyselfdoing. 

           Thewholeplacewasthickwithdust. Thefloorwasseeminglyinchesdeep,exceptwheretherewererecentfootsteps,inwhichonholdingdownmylampIcouldseemarksofhobnailswherethedustwascracked. 

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