Червона кімната

           Thereweretwobigmirrorsintheroom,eachwithapairofsconcesbearingcandles,andonthemantelshelf,too,werecandlesinchinacandle-sticks. AlltheseIlitoneaftertheother. Thefirewaslaid—anunexpectedconsiderationfromtheoldhousekeeper—andIlitit,tokeepdownanydispositiontoshiver,andwhenitwasburningwellIstoodroundwithmybacktoitandregardedtheroomagain. Ihadpulledupachintz-coveredarmchairandatabletoformakindofbarricadebeforeme. Onthislaymyrevolver,readytohand. Mypreciseexaminationhaddonemealittlegood,butIstillfoundtheremoterdarknessoftheplaceanditsperfectstillnesstoostimulatingfortheimagination. Theechoingofthestirandcracklingofthefirewasnosortofcomforttome. Theshadowinthealcoveattheendoftheroombegantodisplaythatundefinablequalityofapresence,thatoddsuggestionofalurkinglivingthingthatcomessoeasilyinsilenceandsolitude. Andtoreassuremyself,Iwalkedwithacandleintoitandsatisfiedmyselfthattherewasnothingtangiblethere. Istoodthatcandleuponthefloorofthealcoveandleftitinthatposition. 

           BythistimeIwasinastateofconsiderablenervoustension,althoughtomyreasontherewasnoadequatecauseformycondition. Mymind,however,wasperfectlyclear. Ipostulatedquiteunreservedlythatnothingsupernaturalcouldhappen,andtopassthetimeIbeganstringingsomerhymestogether,Ingoldsbyfashion,concerningtheoriginallegendoftheplace.