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- Mather testified himself whereof he had seen. But, is it possible? I
asked myself. Then I remembered that Dr. Johnson, the matter-of-fact
compiler of a dictionary, had been a believer in ghosts, besides many
other sound, worthy men. Yielding to the fascination, I read deeper and
deeper into the night. At last, I found myself starting at the least
chance sound, and yet wishing that it were not so very still.
A tumbler of warm punch stood by my side, with which beverage, in a
moderate way, I was accustomed to treat myself every Saturday night;
a habit, however, against which my good wife had long remonstrated;
predicting that, unless I gave it up, I would yet die a miserable sot.
Indeed, I may here mention that, on the Sunday mornings following
my Saturday nights, I had to be exceedingly cautious how I gave way
to the slightest impatience at any accidental annoyance; because
such impatience was sure to be quoted against me as evidence of the
melancholy consequences of over-night indulgence. As for my wife, she,
never sipping punch, could yield to any little passing peevishness as
much as she pleased.
But, upon the night in question, I found myself wishing that, instead
of my usual mild mixture, I had concocted some potent draught. I felt
the need of stimulus. I wanted something to hearten me against Cotton
Mather--doleful, ghostly, ghastly Cotton Mather. I grew more and more
nervous. Nothing but fascination kept me from fleeing the room. The
candles burnt low, with long snuffs, and huge winding-sheets. But I
durst not raise the snuffers to them. It would make too much noise. And
yet, previously, I had been wishing for noise. I read on and on. My
hair began to have a sensation. My eyes felt strained; they pained me.
I was conscious of it. I knew I was injuring them. I knew I should rue
this abuse of them next day; but I read on and on. I could not help
it. The skinny hand was on me.
All at once--Hark!
My hair felt like growing grass.
A faint sort of inward rapping or rasping--a strange, inexplicable
sound, mixed with a slight kind of wood-pecking or ticking.
Tick! Tick!
Yes, it was a faint sort of ticking.
I looked up at my great Strasbourg clock in one corner. It was not
that. The clock had stopped.
Tick! Tick!
Was it my watch?
According to her usual practice at night, my wife had, upon retiring,
carried my watch off to our chamber to hang it up on its nail.
I listened with all my ears.
Tick! Tick!
Was it a death-tick in the wainscot?
With a tremulous step I went all round the room, holding my ear to the
wainscot.
No; it came not from the wainscot.
Tick! Tick!
I shook myself. I was ashamed of my fright.
Tick! Tick!
It grew in precision and audibleness. I retreated from the wainscot. It
seemed advancing to meet me.
I looked round and round, but saw nothing, only one cloven foot of the
little apple-tree table.
Bless me, said I to myself, with a sudden revulsion, it must be very
late; ain't that my wife calling me? Yes, yes; I must to bed. I suppose
all is locked up. No need to go the rounds.
The fascination had departed, though the fear had increased. With
trembling hands, putting Cotton Mather out of sight, I soon found
myself, candlestick in hand, in my chamber, with a peculiar rearward
feeling, such as some truant dog may feel. In my eagerness to get well
into the chamber, I stumbled against a chair.
"Do try and make less noise, my dear," said my wife from the bed.
"You have been taking too much of that punch, I fear. That sad habit
grows on you. Ah, that I should ever see you thus staggering at night
into your chamber."
"Wife," hoarsely whispered I, "there is--is something tick-ticking in
the cedar-parlor."
"Poor old man--quite out of his mind--I knew it would be so. Come to
bed; come and sleep it off."
"Wife, wife!"
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