Ужас в музее

           Thevaultedmuseumchamberwaslikeatomb—ghastlyinitsuttersolitude. Evenamousewouldbecheeringcompany;yetRogershadonceboastedthat—for“certainreasons”,ashesaid—nomiceoreveninsectsevercameneartheplace. Thatwasverycurious,yetitseemedtobetrue. Thedeadnessandsilencewerevirtuallycomplete.Ifonlysomethingwouldmakeasound! Heshuffledhisfeet,andtheechoescamespectrallyoutoftheabsolutestillness. Hecoughed,buttherewassomethingmockinginthestaccatoreverberations. Hecouldnot,hevowed,begintalkingtohimself. Thatmeantnervousdisintegration. Timeseemedtopasswithabnormalanddisconcertingslowness. Hecouldhaveswornthathourshadelapsedsincehelastflashedthelightonhiswatch,yetherewasonlythestrokeofmidnight. 

           Hewishedthathissenseswerenotsopreternaturallykeen.Somethinginthedarknessandstillnessseemedtohavesharpenedthem,sothattheyrespondedtofaintintimationshardlystrongenoughtobecalledtrueimpressions. Hisearsseemedattimestocatchafaint,elusivesusurruswhichcouldnotquitebeidentifiedwiththenocturnalhumofthesqualidstreetsoutside,andhethoughtofvague,irrelevantthingslikethemusicofthespheresandtheunknown,inaccessiblelifeofaliendimensionspressingonourown. Rogersoftenspeculatedaboutsuchthings. 

           Thefloatingspecksoflightinhisblackness-drownedeyesseemedinclinedtotakeoncurioussymmetriesofpatternandmotion.