the pulse of the house

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one
could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected
roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they
moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow
side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread
about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling—
what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush
crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood
pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of
the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room… " the
pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then?
But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So
fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I
sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass;
death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of
years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the
rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went
East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the
house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe,
the pulse of the house beat gladly. "The Treasure yours."

The haunted house - Virginia Woolf