The Horned Man

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One afternoon earlier this winter, in a moment of idle curiosity, I took a book from the shelf in my office, and began reading it where it fell open on a piece of compressed tissue that had evidently been used as a bookmark. I only had time to read a few sentences when I was interrupted by a knock on the door. Reluctantly – the sentences had looked interesting – I closed the book on its marker and returned it to the shelf.

The next morning I took it down again, intending to continue reading where I had left off, only to find that the marker was no longer at the page it had been on the day before. Leafing through the book, I found my sentences thirty pages earlier. Either I had moved the marker inadvertently myself, or else some night-visitor had been reading the book in my absence. I settled on the first as the more likely explanation, though it seemed odd that I could have moved a bookmark thirty pages forward without noticing it.

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