So then she would give a great sigh of relaxed nervous tension and go back to her heroine and the Indians and the mysterious footsteps that marched on moonlight nights up and down a long porch just outside windows that frequently framed white, scared faces with wide, horror-stricken eyes which saw nothing of the marcher, though the steps still went up and down.
It was very creepy, in spots.

It was so creepy that one evening when Lite had come to smoke a cigarette or two in her company and to listen to her account of the day's happenings, Lite noticed that when she read the creepy passages in her story, she glanced frequently over her shoulder.
"You want to cut out this story writing," he said abruptly, when she paused to find the next page.

"It's bad enough to work like you do in the pictures.

This is going a little too strong; you're as jumpy to-night as a guilty conscience.

Cut it out." "I'm all right.