It returned to haunt Carl now . He did n't believe those things ; he did n't even really believe in Henry Warren 's ghost . As for Mr. Pollock , he had been dead sixty years , so it was n't likely he cared who sat on his tombstone now . But there is something very strange and terrible in being awake when all the rest of the world is asleep . You are alone then with nothing but your own feeble personality to pit against the mighty principalities and powers of darkness . Carl was only ten and the dead were all around him -- and he wished , oh , he wished that the clock would strike twelve . Would it NEVER strike twelve ? Surely Aunt Martha must have forgotten to wind it . And then it struck eleven -- only eleven ! He must stay yet another hour in that grim place . If only there were a few friendly stars to be seen ! The darkness was so thick it seemed to press against his face . There was a sound as of stealthy passing footsteps all over the graveyard . Carl shivered , partly with prickling terror , partly with real cold . Then it began to rain -- a chill , penetrating drizzle . Carl 's thin little cotton blouse and shirt were soon wet through . He felt chilled to the bone . He forgot mental terrors in his physical discomfort . But he must stay there till twelve -- he was punishing himself and he was on his honour . Nothing had been said about rain -- but it did not make any difference .
When the study clock finally struck twelve a drenched little figure crept stiffly down off Mr. Pollock 's tombstone , made its way into the manse and upstairs XXXXX bed .
If about around in of on that through till to