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Page 18
* * * * *
Some day, somebody will find and read what he writes. This will be
terrible. I am suspicious of the servant, who is always peeping and
peering, trying to see what I write. I must do something. Every servant
I have had is curious about what I write.
* * * * *
Fabric of fancy. That is all it is. There is no Jim who sits in the
chair. I know that. Last night, when the house was asleep, I went down
into the cellar and looked carefully at the soil around the chimney. It
was untampered with. The dead do not rise up.
* * * * *
Yesterday morning, when I entered the study, there he was in the chair.
When I had dispelled him, I sat in the chair myself all day. I had my
meals brought to me. And thus I escaped the sight of him for many hours,
for he appears only in the chair. I was weary, but I sat late, until
eleven o'clock. Yet, when I stood up to go to bed, I looked around, and
there he was. He had slipped into the chair on the instant. Being only
fabric of fancy, all day he had resided in my brain. The moment it was
unoccupied, he took up his residence in the chair. Are these his boasted
higher planes of existence--his brother's brain and a chair? After all,
was he not right? Has his eternal form become so attenuated as to be an
hallucination? Are hallucinations real entities? Why not? There is food
for thought here. Some day I shall come to a conclusion upon it.
* * * * *
He was very much disturbed to-day. He could not write, for I had made
the servant carry the pen out of the room in his pocket But neither
could I write.
* * * * *
The servant never sees him. This is strange. Have I developed a keener
sight for the unseen? Or rather does it not prove the phantom to be what
it is--a product of my own morbid consciousness?
* * * * *
He has stolen my pen again. Hallucinations cannot steal pens. This is
unanswerable. And yet I cannot keep the pen always out of the room. I
want to write myself.
* * * * *
I have had three different servants since my trouble came upon me, and
not one has seen him. Is the verdict of their senses right? And is that
of mine wrong? Nevertheless, the ink goes too rapidly. I fill my pen
more often than is necessary. And furthermore, only to-day I found my
pen out of order. I did not break it.
* * * * *
I have spoken to him many times, but he never answers. I sat and watched
him all morning. Frequently he looked at me, and it was patent that he
knew me.
* * * * *
By striking the side of my head violently with the heel of my hand, I
can shake the vision of him out of my eyes. Then I can get into the
chair; but I have learned that I must move very quickly in order to
accomplish this. Often he fools me and is back again before I can sit
down.
* * * * *
It is getting unbearable. He is a jack-in-the-box the way he pops into
the chair. He does not assume form slowly. He pops. That is the only way
to describe it. I cannot stand looking at him much more. That way lies
madness, for it compels me almost to believe in the reality of what I
know is not. Besides, hallucinations do not pop.
* * * * *
Thank God he only manifests himself in the chair. As long as I occupy
the chair I am quit of him.
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