There it was again—that ee-ee-ahh-ahh, so much like rusty hinges.[7] And occasionally there was something much worse—the clump[8], clump, clump that seemed to be coming up the stairs. It was no good trying to retreat back into whatever I had been reading. The words under the glaring light bulb became as incomprehensible as hieroglyphics.[9]
The ensuing[10] silence was just as bad, because I kept listening even more intently for the next creak or clump, or imagining that whoever was making those noises had decided to be more careful so as not to alarm me. Then I might only hear a click or a tick ... or a tap.[11]
I suffered through these episodes[12] of terror for several years. But then one night—about the time I was entering puberty[13] —something unexpected came over me, making me feel as if I were a different person. I suddenly became outraged at the thought that I should be trembling there in my own bed imagining creatures that not only had no business trespassing in my house—my house!—but probably didn’t even exist.[14]
I flung aside the covers, jumped out of bed, pulled my door open, and stomped out to the top of the stairway,[15] ready to confront the worst and order it to be gone. “Present fears,” as Shakespeare says, “are less than horrible imaginings.” When we face our fears they shrink in size or turn out to have been nothing but illusions.
【半夜,房间角落里的声响】相关文章:
★ Analysis and Interpretation of the News阅读练习与解析
最新
2016-10-18
2016-10-11
2016-10-11
2016-10-08
2016-09-30
2016-09-30