It so fell that one dark evening in the month of June I was belated in the Bernese Oberland. Dusk overtook me toiling along the great Chamounix Road, and in the heart of a most desolate gorge, whose towering snow-flung walls seemed -- as the day sucked inwards to a point secret as a leech's mouth -- to close about me like a monstrous amphitheater of ghosts. . . .Bernard Edward J. Capes is generally remembered as a writer of eerie fiction, and, as you can see, he had a feel for the form.