Here it is, written through impulse rather than inspiration. I don't think I ever wrote anything faster in my life. Subsequently it's a torrid, workmanlike affair: but at least I finished something. ( Read more... )
Over his body the small man began to rise, and I saw him raise his head, and again those terrible eyes looked directly into mine. Over the walls rushed a plethora of shapes; of trees where hanged men swung, of snow cascading through the house and crushing a stooped old man, of a dozen deaths played out in mute shadow-play. Then I heard his laughter and swam again from him, rising through the house and searching for some person I half-remembered. My hallucinations overcame me and I believed that my dead mother chased me with her hands outstretched, only to dissipate as her skeletal fingers reached me
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