"It's a quarter to twelve. I never get to sleep before twelve--not
here."
"What do you do, then?"
"Oh, I read and listen."
"Listen?"
Seaton stared into his candle-flame as if he were listening even then.
"You can't guess what it is. All you read in ghost stories, that's all
rot. You can't see much, Withers, but you know all the same."
"Know what?"
"Why, that they're there."
"Who's there?" I asked fretfully, glancing at the door.
"Why, in the house. It swarms with 'em. Just you stand still and listen
outside my bedroom door in the middle of the night. I have, dozens of
times; they're all over the place."
"Look here, Seaton," I said, "you asked me to come here, and I didn't
mind chucking up a leave just to oblige you and because I'd promised;
but don't get talking a lot of rot, that's all, or you'll know the
difference when we get back."
"Don't fret," he said coldly, turning away. "I shan't be at school
long. And what's more, you're here now, and there isn't anybody else to
talk to. I'll chance the other."
"Look here, Seaton," I said, "you may think you're going to scare me
with a lot of stuff about voices and all that.
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