The Struggle

A ghost, did I say? To look at it, no one would have taken it for an
apparition. No wonder that till the previous evening I had never
suspected it to be other than a man. It was dressed in black; it had
the very aspect of life. I could follow the creases in the frock coat,
the direction of the nap of the silk hat which it wore in my room. How
well by this time I knew that faultless black coat and that impeccable
hat! Yet it seemed that I could not examine them too closely. I
pierced them with the intensity of my fascinated glance. Yes, I
pierced them, for showing faintly through the coat I could discern the
outline of the table which should have been hidden by the man's
figure, and through the hat I could see the handle of the French
window.

As I stood motionless there, solitary under the glow of the electric
light with this fearful visitor, I began to wish that it would move. I
wanted to face it--to meet its gaze with my gaze, eye to eye, and will
against will. The battle between us must start at once, I thought, if
I was to have any chance of victory, for moment by moment I could feel
my resolution, my manliness, my mere physical courage, slipping away.

But the apparition did not stir. Impassive, remorseless, sinister, it
was content to wait, well aware that all suspense was in its favor.
Then I said to myself that I would cross the room, and so attain my
object. I made a step--and drew back, frightened by the sound of a
creaking board. Absurd! But it was quite a minute before I dared to
make another step. I had meant to walk straight across to the other
door, passing in my course close by the occupied chair. I did not do
so; I kept round by the wall, creeping on tiptoe and my eye never
leaving the figure in the chair. I did this in spite of myself, and
the manner of my action was the first hint of an ultimate defeat.