monet painting

was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely
approached my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a
marrow-freezing incident enough.
This was a demoniac laugh- low, suppressed, and deep- uttered, as
it seemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my
bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin-laugher stood
at my bedside- or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked
round, and could see nothing; while, as I still gazed, the unnatural
sound was reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My
first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again to cry
out, 'Who is there?'
Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the
gallery towards the third-storey staircase: a door had lately been
made to shut in that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all was
still.
'Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a devil?'
thought I. Impossible now to remain longer by myself: I must go to