The hideous crone seized Gilman by the shoulders, yanking him out of bed and into empty space.
Again the infinitude of the shrieking twilight abysses flashed past him, but in another second he thought he was in a dark, muddy, unknown alley of foetid odours, with the rotting walls of ancient houses up on every hand.
H.P. Lovecraft, The Dreams in the Witch House.
- Cat. No.