I
had been sitting there perhaps six or seven minutes when I thought
I heard the door move. I looked in that direction and I listened,
but, being unable to make out anything, concluded that I must
have been mistaken. It was a darkish night, the moon not having
yet risen.
Another minute passed, when suddenly something round fell with
a soft but heavy thud upon the stone flooring of the veranda,
and came bounding and rolling along past me. For a moment I
did not rise, but sat wondering what it could be. Finally, I
concluded it must have been an animal. Just then, however, another
idea struck me, and I got up quick enough. The thing lay quite
still a few feet beyond me. I put down my hand towards it and
it did not move: clearly it was not an animal. My hand touched
it. It was soft and warm and heavy. Hurriedly I lifted it and
held it up against the faint starlight.
_It was a newly severed human head!_
I am an old hand and not easily upset, but I own that that ghastly
sight made me feel sick. How had the thing come there? Whose
was it? I put it down and ran to the little doorway. I could
see nothing, hear nobody. I was about to go out into the darkness
beyond, but remembering that to do so was to expose myself to
the risk of being stabbed, I drew back, shut the door, and bolted it.
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