The Trap-Door A sickly new moon threw vague ghostly beams across the willow-lined swamp, out beyond the little cabin that stood on its border.

Through the dense undergrowth and high among the skeleton treetops ugly shadows played with each other, while a sepulchral orchestra of wind and bough shrieked a dirge that flattened in Bonner's ears; but it was not the weird music of the swamp that sent the shudder of actual terror through the frame of the big athlete.
A series of muffled, heartbreaking moans, like those of a woman in dire pain, came to his ears.

He felt the cold perspiration start over his body.

His nerves grew tense with trepidation, his eyes wide with horror.
Instinctively, his fingers clutched the revolver at his side and his gaze went toward the black, square thing which marked the presence of the haunted house.

The orchestra of the night seemed to bring its dirge to a close; a chill interlude of silence ensued.