But one night, as Mr.
Prosser closed his bed-chamber-door, he was struck somewhat by the utter
silence of the room, there being no sound of breathing, which seemed
unaccountable to him, as he knew his wife was in bed, and his ears were
particularly sharp.
There was a candle burning on a small table at the foot of the bed,
beside the one he held in one hand, a heavy ledger, connected with his
father-in-law's business being under his arm. He drew the curtain at the
side of the bed, and saw Mrs. Prosser lying, as for a few seconds he
mortally feared, dead, her face being motionless, white, and covered
with a cold dew; and on the pillow, close beside her head, and just
within the curtains, was, as he first thought, a toad--but really the
same fattish hand, the wrist resting on the pillow, and the fingers
extended towards her temple.
Mr. Prosser, with a horrified jerk, pitched the ledger right at the
curtains, behind which the owner of the hand might be supposed to stand.
The hand was instantaneously and smoothly snatched away, the curtains
made a great wave, and Mr. Prosser got round the bed in time to see the
closet-door, which was at the other side, pulled to by the same white,
puffy hand, as he believed.
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