[piosenniel]

Tom’s hackles had gone up when the others entered the barrow. Push and prod and coax as he might, Ben could not get the dog to enter the ‘shelter’. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he had cried, as Tom backed up, growling at the dark opening. Ben had shrugged his shoulders and shook his head at the contrary animal. ‘Alright! Do what you want. Sit out here in the miserable fog if you want! I’m going inside.’

Now he wished he had paid attention to Tom. He found himself like the others (he supposed since he could not turn his head to see them) on a hard, cold slab. Dressed in mouldering garments that Men must have worn at some great king’s court with a fillet on his brow, rings on his fingers, and a great sword set lengthwise on him, holding him down with its weight.

His mind was heavy, it was hard and getting harder to think. And every once in a while cold and bony fingers would poke at him through the rents in the garments, as if he were a trussed bird on a spit, and the cook bent over it to see if it were ‘ready’.

The feel of the cold hand and the ghastly green eyes that seemed to float along with it just on the periphery of his vision made him shiver with fright. But even that feeling was fading as the creature wove his ghoulish tune about the chamber. The cold melody rose and fell, blending with the shadows, and Ben fell deeper under the dark murmurings of the wight . . .