in any other familiar place he had no fear of the dark, but this enormous attic with all these weird things in it was something else again. The match burned his fingers and he threw it away. For a while he just stood there and listened. The rain had let up and now he could barely hear the drumming on the big tin roof. Then he remembered the rusty, seven-armed candelabrum he had seen. He groped his way across the room, found the candelabrum, and dragged it to his pile of mats. He lit the wicks in the thick stubs – all seven – and a golden light spread. The flames crackled faintly and wavered
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