I'm afraid of the walls, of the furniture, of familiar objects, which seem to me to take on a kind of animal life. Above all, I am afraid of the horrible confusion of my thoughts, of the way my reason becomes blurred and elusive, scattered by a mysterious, invisible anguish. At first I feel a vague uneasiness which enters my soul and sends shivers all over my skin. I look all round me. There's nothing there. And yet I wish there were something there to be seen—something I could understand. The only reason I'm frightened is that I don't understand the cause of my fear. I happen to say something aloud—and I'm frightened by the sound of my own voice! I walk about my room—and I'm afraid there might be something strange behind the door, behind the curtains, in the cupboard, under my bed. And yet I know very well that there is nothing there at all.
Guy de Maupassant, "He?"
