The giant proves himself to be clumsy, breaking furniture every time he sits down, and the narrator chastises him for it. But when I saw a light in your room to-night, I roused my energies again and went at it with a deal of the old freshness.
For the first time in my life a superstitious dread came over me; and as I turned a dark angle of the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its lazy woof in my face and clung there, I shuddered as one who had encountered a phantom. I watched it with fascinated eyes.
I was more dead than alive. But much of Twain's Cardiff Giant piece reads as a straight ghost story. Then I became conscious that my chamber was invaded — that I was not alone. I am the ghost of the Cardiff Giant. Here, here, you petrified fool — " But it was no use.
He goes back to bed, terrified, and the haunting continues throughout the night with voices, footsteps, rattling chains, and other ghostly demonstrations.