So where were we? Right, Lockwood is dreaming that he is getting up to deal with the noisy branch, and tries to open the window.
Or, as he likes to say, "endeavored to unhasp the casement."
The window clasp happens to be soldered shut, but he is not to be stopped! He simply punches through the window. (Lockwood, sweetie, you could have just pried off the latch.) Let's hope this is in fact a dream or there is now a busted window in this room.
He reaches out the window to grab the branch.
instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, "Let me in--let me in!"
Not gonna compare to Jane Eyre again, not gonna compare to Jane Eyre again...
Lockwood tries to free himself from this horrifying spectre, demanding to know who it is, and the girl introduces herself as Catherine Linton.
(why did I think of Linton? I had read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton)
So little Catherine looks in the window and-- wait what.
Terror made me cruel; and, find it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes
I... RIGHT. She continues clinging to him, despite this, and begging to be let in. Lockwood, clever bastard, says he can't let her in until she lets him go, whereupon she does and he immediately jerks his hand back inside and piles the books in front of the broken pane.
Then, he sticks his fingers in his ears to block out the wailing and waits. She does not go away.
...WHAT THE FUCK sorry I just, okay I get that you think she is a ghost or a demon or some horrid supernatural thing but she was bleeding why would you do that. That isn't just cruel, that's horrifying.
So! She is still hanging around the window (if this isn't a dream, he now has blood all over his bed augh) and he said GO AWAY I WON'T LET YOU IN EVEN IF YOU KEEP GOING FOR TWENTY YEARS.
"It is twenty years," mourned the voice: "twenty years. I've been a waif for twenty years!"
Oh good job Lockwood. Good job. You know, I begin to see why the window latch was soldered shut.
The Catherine-ghost tries to push the books out of the way to get in and Lockwood is, apparently, frozen in terror. So he screams! (He says he yells. I say he screams. Like a girl. TAKE THAT, LOCKWOOD.)
To his surprise - well, technically he says to his confusion, which is just as stupid to me - someone hears his cry and hurriedly comes to investigate. Lockwood sat silently in his little cabinet-bed, shuddering in the after-effects of terror, as the visitor looks around.
At last, he said in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer, "Is any one here?" I considered it best to confess my presence; for I knew Heathcliff's accents, and feared he might search further, if I kept quiet. With this intention, I turned and opened the panels.
This book makes me feel so much better about my own comma usage. Good lord.
Heathcliff, as you can see, is the one investigating the sudden noise.
Now, imagine if you will, being the owner of a house, with a haunted room. Imagine that, in the dead of night, you hear a sudden shriek from said haunted room, and you rush to investigate.
And then, on inquiring if anyone is in the haunted room, there is no reply, but the bed case suddenly swings open.
I would not be surprised if Heathcliff has a heart attack. But that is not until the next page! Ho-ho! WHAT SUSPENSE!
