y.

Seeing that it was useless to expect to make out anything, with the
light so high, I felt in my pockets for a piece of twine, with which to
lower it further into the opening. Even as I fumbled, the lantern
slipped from my fingers, and hurtled down into the darkness. For a brief
instant, I watched its fall, and saw the light shine on a tumult of
white foam, some eighty or a hundred feet below me. Then it was gone. My
sudden surmise was correct, and now, I knew the cause of the wet and
noise. The great cellar was connected with the Pit, by means of the
trap, which opened right above it; and the moisture, was the spray,
rising from the water, falling into the depths.

In an instant, I had an explanation of certain things, that had
hitherto puzzled me. Now, I could understand why the noises--on the
first night of the invasion--had seemed to rise directly from under my
feet. And the chuckle that had sounded when first I opened the trap!
Evidently, some of the Swine-things must have been right beneath me.

Another thought struck me. Were the creatures all drowned? Would they
drown? I remembered how unable I had been to find any traces to show
that my shooting had been really fatal. Had they life, as we understand
life, or were they ghouls? These thoughts flashed through my brain, as I
stood in the dark, searching my pockets for matches. I had the box in my
hand now, and, striking a light, I stepped to the trap door, and closed
it. Then, I piled the stones back upon it; after which, I made my way
out from the cellars.

And so, I suppose the water goes on, thundering down into that
bottomless hell-pit. Sometimes, I have an inexplicable desire to go down
to the great cellar, open the trap, and gaze into the impenetrable,
spray-damp darkness. At times, the desire becomes almost overpowering,
in its intensity. It is not mere curiosity, that prompts me; but more as
though some unexplained influence were at work. Still, I never go; and
intend to fight down the strange longing, and crush it; even as I would
the unholy thought of self-destruction.

This idea of some intangible force being exerted, may seem reasonless.
Yet, my instinct warns me, that it is not so. In these things, reason
seems to me less to be trusted than instinct.

One thought there is, in closing, that impresses itself upon me, with
ever growing insistence. It is, that I live in a very strange house; a
very awful house. And I have begun to wonder whether I