The ancient, tremulous woman who was sitting behind the stove opposite the big cupboard may have sat there for a quarter of a century, and her thoughts and feelings are closely interwoven with every corner of the stove and every carving on the cupboard. And the stove and cupboard are alive, for part of a human soul has entered into them.
Besides, ghost-stories are even more blood-curdling if you are reading them on a journey, especially at night, in a town, in a house, in a room where you have never been before. How many horrific events may already have taken place on the very spot where you are lying?—that is what you cannot help wondering.
The stones here speak to me, and I know their mute language. Also, they seem deeply to feel what I think. So a broken column of the old Roman times, an old tower of Lombardy, a weather-beaten Gothic piece of a pillar understands me well. But I am a ruin myself, wandering among ruins.