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The Crypt Tell me more, I said; for a week I sat in darkness— the house groaned; the beams bent to their shims, and the bricks cozied to the burden of drying cement. One night in August it all fit. I walked downstairs—you had left the faucet on. The rooms were lighted in yellow, yellow like a hearth fire, and on the window pane the domed stars warped in the glass; the moon wore a face like a tin dollar. I caught my breath and held it to my chest, counted ten and let it go. Dampness and moss as old as earth pressed between my teeth. I saw crickets in the cellar. Black and long like ink script free of their pages they ran wild on the floor. I stepped on one— wounded it bounded from under my heel fled under a crack in the door jamb and gnawed into the binding of a book.
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