a red light, that streamed across the ceiling and staved off the shadows from me. The fire! Of course I could still thrust my candle between the bars and relight it.
I turned to where the flames were still dancing between the glowing coals and splashing red reflections upon the furniture; made two steps toward the grate, and incontinently the flames dwindled and vanished, the glow vanished, the reflections rushed together and disappeared, and as I thrust the candle between the bars darkness closed upon me like the shutting of an eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace, sealed my vision, and crushed the last vestiges of self-possession from my brain. And it was not only palpable darkness, but intolerable terror. The candle fell from my hands. I flung out my arms in a vain effort to thrust that ponderous blackness away from me, and lifting up my voice, screamed with all my might, once, twice, thrice. Then I think I must have staggered to my feet. I know I thought suddenly of the moonlit corridor, and
A minor story by Wells. A somewhat sneering young man plans to spend the night in the room in a castle where several people have died. It is rumored to be haunted. The story gives a 'scientific' explanation of haunting that isn't too satisfying.
There's nothing wrong with the story, but there's nothing to recommend about it.
Short story that starts out as a haunted room tale but ends as a heavy- handed sermon on not letting fear rule you. Not Wells' best effort.
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