The Beetle by Richard Marsh — Read

I pulled up sharply -- as if a brake had been suddenly, and even mercilessly, applied to bring me to a standstill. In front of the window I stood shivering. A shower had recently commenced -- the falling rain was being blown before the breeze. I was in a terrible sweat -- yet tremulous as with cold; covered with mud; bruised, and cut, and bleeding -- as piteous an object as you would care to see. Every limb in my body ached; every muscle was exhausted; mentally and physically I was done; had I not been held up, willy nilly, by the spell which was upon me, I should have sunk down, then and there, in a hopeless, helpless, hapless heap.

But my tormentor was not yet at an end with me.