For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
This is very creepy, it is like the guy can feel eyes on him, but not see somebody.
I smiled,—for what had I to fear
This seems a bit suspicious, he has nothing to fear after the guy is dead? Was the guy blackmailing him or something?
vulture eye
vulture eye?
the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who's there?”
What is going on? Why is he so scared, who, or what, is he afraid of?
(for the hinges creaked
The way the author describes this makes it sound very creepy.
I loved the old man. He had never wronged me.
Who is the old man? Is the person seeing, and hearing things? Is this side affects of the disease?
I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell.
What is this supposed to mean? Is the person hearing things in their head?
The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them
Is this disease the person is talking baout a real disease? Or is it madeup?
railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed."
Was he run over?
But Richards was too late.
This is very suspensful, it makes me want to know what will happen next.
Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body
Is something happening to her? Is this a good, or bad sign?
But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky.
This describes her in a creepy way, like she is focusing on something that nobody else can see.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair
Scary, and creepy, sounds like they are describing the setting of a horror movie.
"Business or profession?"
Why would a cop need to know someone's job?
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million,
Why are police so rare in his city? Does not a lot of crime happen?
A metallic voice called to him:
Is it a robot? Does the story take place in the feature?
He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.
Why would anyone want to do that, why did he love to do it? Was it just a thing that he did?