The Beetle the Beetle

A face looked into mine, and, in front of me, were those dreadful eyes. Then, whether I was dead or living, I said to myself that this could be nothing human,–nothing fashioned in God’s image could wear such a shape as that. Fingers were pressed into my cheeks, they were thrust into my mouth, they touched my staring eyes, shut my eyelids, then opened them again, and–horror of horrors!–the blubber lips were pressed to mine–the soul of something evil entered into me in the guise of a kiss.