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Updated: July 11, 2025
"I have killed my faither," he said slowly, pausing long between every phrase "I have killed my faither ... I have killed my faither. And he's foll-owing me ... he's foll-owing me ... he's foll-owing me." It was the voice of a thing, not a man. It swelled and dwelt on the "follow," as if the horror of the pursuit made it moan. "He's foll-owing me ... he's foll-owing me ... he's foll-owing me.
A face like a dark mist and een like hell. Oh, they're foll-owing me ... they're foll-owing me ... they're foll-owing me!" His voice seemed to come from an infinite distance. It was like a lost soul moaning in a solitude. The dog was barking in the street. A cry of the night came from far away. That voice was as if a corpse opened its lips and told of horrors beyond the grave.
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