Welcome back to Nighty Night, bedtime stories to keep you awake.

I'm your host, Raviachagri, and in today's story, we will journey together with

our narrator as he comes under the influence of a dark force, a

force that he believes is supernatural and external, but it may be that this force is

actually a dissent into his own madness.

The Horla by Ghee de Mopasson.

May 8th, What a lovely day.

I have spent all the morning lying on the grass in front of my house under the enormous

plantain tree which covers and shades and shelters the whole of it.

I like this part of the country.

I am fond of living here because I'm attached to it by deep roots.

The profound and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil on which his ancestors were born and died

to their traditions, their usages, their food, the local

expressions, the peculiar language of the peasants, the smell of the soil, the hamlets,

and to the atmosphere itself. I love the house in which I grew up.

From my windows I can see the cen which flows by the side of my garden on the other side of the road,

almost through my grounds, the Great and Wide

San, which goes to Ruwa and Avra and which is covered with boats passing to and fro.

On the left, down yonder, lies Rowan, populace Rowan, with its blue roofs massing

underpointed Gothic towers.

Inumerable are they, delicate or broad, dominated by the spire of the cathedral, full of bells which sound

through the blue air on fine mornings, sending their sweet and distant ironed clang to me,

...