I looked around the room on other pictures, either to divert my attention, or to see whether the same effect would be produced by them.  Some of them were grim enough to produce the effect, if the mere grimness of the painting produced it—­no such thing.  My eye passed over them all with perfect indifference, but the moment it reverted to this visage over the fire-place, it was as if an electric shock darted through me.  The other pictures were dim and faded; but this one protruded from a plain black ground in the strongest relief, and with wonderful truth of coloring.  The expression was that of agony—­the agony of intense bodily pain; but a menace scowled upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of blood added to its ghastliness.  Yet it was not all these characteristics—­it was some horror of the mind, some inscrutable antipathy awakened by this picture, which harrowed up my feelings.

I tried to persuade myself that this was chimerical; that my brain was confused by the fumes of mine host’s good cheer, and, in some measure, by the odd stories about paintings which had been told at supper.  I determined to shake off these vapors of the mind; rose from my chair, and walked about the room; snapped my fingers; rallied myself; laughed aloud.  It was a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old chamber jarred upon my ear.  I walked to the window; tried to discern the landscape through the glass.  It was pitch darkness, and howling storm without; and as I heard the wind moan among the trees, I caught a reflection of this accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it were staring through the window at me.  Even the reflection of it was thrilling.

How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now persuaded myself it was, to be conquered?  I determined to force myself not to look at the painting but to undress quickly and get into bed.  I began to undress, but in spite of every effort I could not keep myself from stealing a glance every now and then at the picture; and a glance was now sufficient to distress me.  Even when my back was turned to it, the idea of this strange face behind me, peering over my shoulder, was insufferable.  I threw off my clothes and hurried into bed; but still this visage gazed upon me.  I had a full view of it from my bed, and for some time could not take my eyes from it.  I had grown nervous to a dismal degree.

I put out the light, and tried to force myself to sleep;—­all in vain!  The fire gleaming up a little, threw an uncertain light about the room, leaving, however, the region of the picture in deep shadow.  What, thought I, if this be the chamber about which mine host spoke as having a mystery reigning over it?—­I had taken his words merely as spoken in jest; might they have a real import?  I looked around.  The faintly lighted apartment had all the qualifications requisite for a haunted chamber.  It began in my infected imagination to assume strange appearances.  The old portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker and blacker; the streaks of light and shadow thrown among the quaint old articles of furniture, gave them singular shapes and characters.  There was a huge dark clothes-press of antique form, gorgeous in brass and lustrous with wax, that began to grow oppressive to me.