The worst part about editing is snipping and pruning away good bits, the best bits, your children your darlings the lines you loved as you wrote them and now have to cull. Chapter 8 was slashed and rewritten with bold, brazen cuts of the knife, and Chapter 9 was massacred, entire pages cut and torn bloody and whole from the manuscript, to litter the floor and moan piteously about my feet. From creator to destroyer, snip snip snip.
Ah well. It’s for the best. Here’s one such paragraph, cut and culled, to be discarded but not forgotten:
I have managed one small victory. That room is to be locked from henceforth. Nobody is to go in. There it shall reside alone, dead but not at peace.
But what if his shade can move beyond its confines, what if he is watching me now? I have all the candles and torches lit to flaring glaring incandescence, and still I eye the corners suspiciously, still I refuse to close the cupboard doors. I wear my cross and wear my cross but to no avail, it helped not Bierce, not James, not Father Timon, not Kevin, and will not help me. I kiss it fervently, but suspect my own fervor. I shall flee to New York, and pray that he shall not follow me there. Let me escape this shadow, dear Lord, before I am dragged below its enervating coil.