Tales of Terror and Mystery

           ConfusedbythechlorodynewhichIhadtaken,Ilaymotionlessinasemi-consciousstate.Thegreatroomwithitshighwallscoveredwithbooksloomeddarklyallroundme.Adimradiancefromthemoonlightcamethroughthefartherwindow,andagainstthislighterbackgroundIsawthatSirJohnBollamorewassittingathisstudytable.Hiswell-setheadandclearlycutprofileweresharplyoutlinedagainsttheglimmeringsquarebehindhim.HebentasIwatchedhim,andIheardthesharpturningofakeyandtheraspingofmetaluponmetal.AsifinadreamIwasvaguelyconsciousthatthiswasthejapannedboxwhichstoodinfrontofhim,andthathehaddrawnsomethingoutofit,somethingsquatanduncouth,whichnowlaybeforehimuponthetable.Ineverrealized—itneveroccurredtomybemuddledandtorpidbrainthatIwasintrudinguponhisprivacy,thatheimaginedhimselftobealoneintheroom.Andthen,justasitrusheduponmyhorrifiedperceptions,andIhadhalfrisentoannouncemypresence,Iheardastrange,crisp,metallicclicking,andthenthevoice.

           Yes,itwasawoman’svoice;therecouldnotbeadoubtofit.Butavoicesochargedwithentreatyandwithyearninglove,thatitwillringforeverinmyears.Itcamewithacuriousfarawaytinkle,buteverywordwasclear,thoughfaint—veryfaint,fortheywerethelastwordsofadyingwoman.

           "Iamnotreallygone,John,"saidthethin,gaspingvoice."Iamhereatyourveryelbow,andshallbeuntilwemeetoncemore.Idiehappytothinkthatmorningandnightyouwillhearmyvoice.Oh,John,bestrong,bestrong,untilwemeetagain.