As thin shadows swayed across my window blind, my fingers clutched the book to my chest. My throat muscles convulsed, and the blood trapped in my veins by the shock suddenly thundered on, rushing heat through my body.
It was him… the creeping man.
This was my first identifiable memory as a Sherlock Holmes fan.
Of course, the creeping man wasn’t actually outside my window; it was a crazy shadow cast by a tree devoid of its leaves in the winter. But that moment of utter terror experienced in my early twenties decided my favorite Sherlock Holmes short story for me.
The Creeping Man startles the imagination with its ghastly and Gothic possibilities, making it one of the most iconic of Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories.