The eighth night I was more than usually careful as I opened
the door. The hands of a clock move more quickly than did my hand.
Never before had I felt so strongly my own power; I was now sure of
success.
The old man was lying there not dreaming that I was at his door.
Suddenly he moved in his bed. You may think I became afraid. But no.
The darkness in his room was thick and black. I knew he could not see
the opening of the door. I continued to push the door, slowly, softly. I
put in my head. I put in my hand, with the covered light. Suddenly the
old man sat straight up in bed and cried, “Who’s there??!”
I stood quite still. For a whole hour I did not move. Nor did I
hear him again lie down in his bed. He just sat there, listening. Then I
heard a sound, a low cry of fear which escaped from the old man. Now
I knew that he was sitting up in his bed, filled with fear; I knew that he
knew that I was there. He did not see me there. He could not hear me
there. He felt me there. Now he knew that Death was standing there.