"Brown eyes?"
"No."
"Blue?"
"Grey."
"Clean shaven?"
"No."
"Moustache?"
He laughed.
"Yes."
"How old were you when you died?"
"Fifty-five."
"Oh," I said.
"Would you like to know my name?" I asked presently.
"Yes."
"I'm Tina Malone."
"Are you now?" he said putting on a slight brogue.
"Yes, I am," I answered, at once catching the touch of Irish.
"Are you glad to see me Tina?"
"Sure I am that," I said.
"Were you lonely, then, girl?"
"I was."
"You'll not be lonely any more."
I can't remember how many nights passed—it may have been that Tuesday or the following one—when what I term the "operation" took place.
As the exercises progressed I noticed that my visitor seemed concerned about one part of me and always hesitated and paused for some time over one part of me, while I lay still. Then I found my eyes caused to blink hard. I looked towards the foot of the bed where I supposed him to be standing and said:
"You're not to hypnotise me. I will not be hypnotised, do you hear? I will not—I will not—I will not."
I closed my eyes and turned my head to one side. I closed my eyes naturally then, but afterwards they shut tight suddenly.
I lay there talking to my visitor who seemed intent on his work and did not reply—and my arms were then lying by my sides—Soon I found myself giving little whimpers, my forehead puckered. I felt no pain—but my hands began to clutch at the bed-clothes and presently, I thrust my fists into my mouth and began to bite them as people do when they are in great pain, and as if with them stifling a scream.
Then I lost consciousness. My heart seemed to stop and when I came round again—or rather as I had the feeling I have had before on coming out of a faint—a cruelly painful feeling as of life coming back with difficulty—found myself thinking—
"So this is death! I'm dead now."
