Mr. Alec Davis ' tall monument gleamed whitely through the gloom . The willow beside it tossed long , writhing arms spectrally . At times , the gyrations of its boughs made it seem as if the monument were moving , too . Carl curled himself up on the tombstone with his legs tucked under him . It was n't precisely pleasant to hang them over the edge of the stone . Just suppose -- just suppose -- bony hands should reach up out of Mr. Pollock 's grave under it and clutch him by the ankles . That had been one of Mary Vance 's cheerful speculations one time when they had all been sitting there . 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 XXXXX prickling terror , partly with real cold .
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