“There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seems to speak of some hidden soul beneath”
The tank is secure each morning when Mr. Tribbs turns on the light. Inside its silvery walls, the soft body of the octopus pulses, curled amorphously around its rock. First it is cats. Next, Mrs. Rotherfield’s sixteen-year-old maltese. The diamante collar found near the lift; the weeping lady escorted back to No. 34 E. Mr. Tribbs discounts the wet spots occasionally found on the carpet, the odd scratches around the chain-lock on the door. When four-year-old Joseph McHennery disappears out of his nursery - that is the start of Mr. Tribbs’ war against the cephalopod.