You are alone then with nothing but your own feeble personality to pit against the mighty principalities and powers of darkness . Carl was only ten and the dead were all around him -- and he wished , oh , he wished that the clock would strike twelve . Would it NEVER strike twelve ? Surely Aunt Martha must have forgotten to wind it . And then it struck eleven -- only eleven ! He must stay yet another hour in that grim place . If only there were a few friendly stars to be seen ! The darkness was so thick it seemed to press against his face . There was a sound as of stealthy passing footsteps all over the graveyard . Carl shivered , partly with prickling terror , partly with real cold . Then it began to rain -- a chill , penetrating drizzle . Carl 's thin little cotton blouse and shirt were soon wet through . He felt chilled to the bone . He forgot mental terrors in his physical discomfort . But he must stay there till twelve -- he was punishing himself and he was on his honour . Nothing had been said about rain -- but it did not make any difference . When the study clock finally struck twelve a drenched little figure crept stiffly down off Mr. Pollock 's tombstone , made its way into the manse and upstairs to bed . Carl 's teeth were chattering . He thought he would never get warm again . He was warm enough when morning came .
Jerry gave one startled look at his crimson XXXXX and then rushed to call his father .
chill clock discomfort drizzle eleven face honour nothing teeth terror