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He promptly opened the doors of the three wardrobe closets and looked inside. My clothes hung in two of the closets. Their son's were in the third. Since my room was in the rear of the house, he pointed out that the light could not have come from an automobile passing along the street in front. He smiled. "You must have had a bad dream, Miss Wright. Just call out if you need anything."
After they left, I again went out on the screen porch. The silhouettes of the trees were barely visible in the darkness and the night was utterly still. I stood there, trying to quzzle out an answer. Of one thing I was perfectly certain: I had not been dreaming. The evidence for that was that I had been able to see everything in the room, and more important than that, I had noted that the screen porch was dark and that it was dark outdoors. I recalled that I had not been afraid, that there was no feeling of being in the presence of something malevolent. Panic had come only when I thought of a prowler in the room. And how to explain that that the room was pitch dark again when I came out of the