Weird Tales v38n04 (1945 03)

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Lords Of the BEDFORD-JONES Ghost lands SEABURY w v-v: -,vj ■ -

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MARCH, 1945 Cover by A. R, Tilbume NOVELETTE LORDS OF THE GHOSTLANDS Seabury Quinn 8 To be jerked out of the quiet restfulness of your grave and shipped across four thousand miles of water . . . but then any mummy might be called unlucky! SHORT STORIES IN THE BEGINNING H. Bedford-Jones 24 Did you ever hear of an office safe that contained a link with the philosophers, magicians and soothsayers of past ages? A BIRTHDAY PRESENT FOR TOMMY . Charles King 33 The way to conquer horror is to bring your fears out into the open; but you can’t bring THEM out into the open. . , . THE PERIPATETIC CORPSE Harold Lawlor 38 The funniest part about a corpse walking into the morgue by itself is that it just couldn’t happen — could it? THE SHONOKINS Manly Wade Wellman 48 Precautions against the Shonokins are not like precautions against anything else in this world or out of it PLEASE GO WAY AND LET ME SLEEP Helen W. Kasson 56 The family was gathered just as it would have been gathered in any other room . . . only this was the crypt ALANNAH Stephen Grendon 64 Any sensitive, imaginative child lives in a world of make-believe — at least " make-believe ” is what the prosaic mind calls it THE TOMBSTONE Ray Bradbury 72 "No dead man’s going to rest easy with strange folks sleeping right on top of him” SECOND CHILDHOOD Jack Snow 76 As one approaches the end of life’s long journey memory becomes brilliantly clear and vivid A SIP WITH SATAN Roger S. Vreeland 80 fust one old man alone in a place big enough for a hotel. And the THINGS he did, well, what do you think? VERSE QUEST UNHALLOWED . Page Cooper 3 BEWITCHED Willard N. Marsh 32 WIND WALKS NOT ALONE Dan Kelly 55 SUPERSTITIONS AND TABOOS . Irwin J. Weill 63 THE EYRIE AND WEIRD TALES CLUB . 93 Except for personal experiences the contents of this magazine is fiction. Any use of the name of any living person or reference to actual events is purely coincidental. Published bi-monthly by Weird Tales, 9 Rockefeller Plaza, New York 20, N. Y. Reentered as second-class matter January 26, 1940. at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the act of March 3, 1879. Single copies, 15 cents* Subscription rates: One year in the United States and possessions, 90<£. Foreign and Canadian postage extra. English Office: Charles Lavell, Limited, 4 Clements Inn, Strand, London, W.C.2, England. The publishers are not responsible for the loss of unsolicited manuscripts although every care will be taken of such material while in their possession. Copyright, 1944, by Weird Tales. Copyrighted in Great Britain. 173 Title registered in U. S, Patent Office. PRINTED IN THE U. 8. A. Vol. 38, No. 4 D, McILWRAITH. Editor , LAMONT BUCHANAN, Associate Editor <

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BY PAGE COOPER "IV A ORTAL lips will never touch you, IxiL Mortal eye or hand or thigh or breast Give you comfort of delight of loving, Give you ecstasy or rest. Thrall to phantom lips that sear you, Burn your trembling flesh with bliss designed For the angels, eyes whose lonely glory Strikes you impotent and blind. Stumbling through your finite paces Hounded by a dream, you’ll pray to die, End this hot unhallowed lust for beauty Mortals may not live to spy.

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<_5</ords of the Ghostlands T ULES DE GRANDIN passed the I brandy sniffer back and forth beneath his nose, savoring the bouquet of the fine champagne with the keen appreciation of a connoisseur. He took a light, prelimi- nary sip, and his expression of delight be- came positively ecstatic. "Parbleu,” he mur- mured, “as my good friend Francois Rabel- ais was wont to say, 'Good wine is the living soul of the grape, but good brandy is the living spirit of the wine,’ and — ” "The devil!” Dr. Taylor broke in as a nervous movement of his elbow dislodged the bubble-thin inhaler from the tabourette beside his elbow and sent it crashing to the floor. ,!Quel dommage — what a pity!” consoled de Grandin. "To lose the lovely crystal is a misfortune, Monsieur, but the vieux cognac, he are priceless, to lose her are a calamity, no less!” "You’re not just saying that!” Dr. Taylor answered grimly. "That’s the last bottle of Jerome Napoleon in my cellar, and heaven only knows when I’ll get a replacement. These things always seem to run in threes. This morning at breakfast I upset my coffee cup, this afternoon I nearly dropped a bit of absolutely priceless papyrus in the fire, now” — he broke off with a grimace of self-dis- gust— "I hope I’ve completed the cycle.” "One understands, Monsieur,” de Gran- din nodded commiseratingly. "It is the times — the strain of war, the — ” "We can’t blame this on the war,” Taylor denied. "I hate to confess it, but I’ve been Heading by A. R. TILBURNE 8

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By SEABURY QUINN de Grandin. I wish it were. The fact is that though I’m not superstitious I’ve had a bad case of the jitters since last week when they brought out a new mummy at the Museum. It had been greatly delayed in transit due to the war, and when it came it took us all by surprise. Several of our younger men have joined the services, so I took it in charge. I wish I hadn’t now, for unless I’m much mis- taken it’s what’s called 'unlucky,’ and — well, as I’ve said, I’m not superstitious, but . . .’ "I should think that any mummy might be called unlucky,” I put in rather fatuously. "To be jerked out of the quiet restfulness of your grave and shipped across four thousand miles of water, then exhibited for people whom you’d call barbarians to gawk at — ” MY FAINT attempt at humor was com- pletely lost on Dr. Taylor. "When an Egyptologist refers to a mummy as unlucky Hoe ancient gods of Egypt have the power to punish those disturbing the tombs of mummies 9 jumpy as a bit of popcorn in a popper for the past few days. My goat’s gone.” ’'Comment?” de Grandin’s brows went up the barest fraction of an inch. "He was a valuable animal, this goat of yours, Aion- sieur?” Despite himself our host gave vent to a short laugh. "Very, Dr. de Grandin. Unless I get him back again I shall — oh, I’ll not pull your leg. To lose one’s goat is an American idiom meaning to become utterly demoralized. It’s that dam’ mummy that is driving me almost to distraction.” This time de Grandin was not to be caught napping. "Translate, if you will be so kind, Friend Trowbridge,” he begged. “Is it another of his idioms — is the mummy to which he refers a genuine cadavre, or perhaps a papa’s wife, or a mother—” "No!” Dr. Taylor held explosive laugh- ter in by main force. "This is no idiom, Dr.

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10 WEIRD TALES he has reference to its effect on the living, not to its peculiar luck or lack of it,” he cut in almost sharply. "Call it nonsense if you will — and probably you will — but the fact is there seems some substance to the belief that the ancient gods of Egypt have the power to punish those disturbing the mummies of people dying in apostacy. Such mummies are referred to in the trade as 'unlucky’— un- lucky for the people who find them or have anything to do with them. Tutankhamen is the classic example of this. He was a noted heretic in his day, you know, and had given- great offense to the 'Old Ones’ or their priests, which in the long run amounted to the same thing. So when he died, although they gave him an elaborate funeral, they set no image of Amen-Ra at the prow of the boat that ferried him across the Lake of the Dead, and the plaques of Seb, Tern, Nepthys, Osiris and Isis were not prepared to go with him into the tomb. Notwith- standing his belated efforts to be reconciled with the priesthood, Tutankhamen was little better than an atheist according to contem- porary Egyptian theology, and the wrath of the gods followed him beyond the grave. It was not their wish that his name be pre- served to posterity or that any of his relics be brought to light. "Now, just consider contemporary hap- penings: In 1922 Lord Carnavon located the tomb. He had four associates. Carnavon and three of these associates died within a year or so of the opening of the tomb. Colo- nel Herbert and Dr. Evelyn-White were among the first to enter the tomb. Both died within twelve months. Sir Archibald Doug- lass was engaged to make X-rays of the mummy. He died almost before the plates could be developed. Six of the seven French journalists who went into the tomb shortly after it was opened died in less than a year, and almost every workman engaged in the excavations died before he had a chance to spend his pay. Some of these people died one way, some another. The fact is : they all died. "Not only that: Even minor articles taken from Tut’s tomb seem to exercise malign influence. There is proof absolute that at- tendants at the Cairo Museum whose duties keep them in or even near the room where Tutankhamen’s relics are displayed sicken or die for no apparent reason. D’ye wonder that they call him an unlucky’ mummy?” "Bien, Monsieur. Et puis?” de Grandin prompted as our host lapsed into moody silence. "Just this,” responded Dr. Taylor. "This mummy I’ve had wished on me is dam’ pe- culiar. It’s Eighteenth Dynasty work, that much is plain, but unlike anything I ever saw before. There is no face mask nor fu- nerary statue, either on the mummy or in the coffin, and the case itself is bare of writ- ing. The old Egyptians always wrote the titles and biographies of the dead upon their coffins, you know, but this case is just bare, virgin wood; a beautiful shell of thin hard cedar to which not even varnish has been ap- plied. Most mummy case lids are held in place by four little flanges, two to a side, which sink into mortises cut in the lower section and are held in place by hardwood dowels. This case has eight, three to each side and one at each end. They must have wanted to make sure that whoever was fas- tened in that coffin wouldn’t break out. Fur- thermore— and this is more than merely un- usual, it’s absolutely unique — the bottom of the coffin is strewn four inches deep with spices.” "Spices?” echoed Jules de Grandin. "Spices. Yes. We haven’t analyzed ’em all yet, but so far we’ve identified clove, spikenard, cinnamon, aloes, thyme and gin-

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LORDS OF THE GHOSTLANDS 11 ger, mustard, capsicum and common sodium chloride.” De Grandin pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "This are unusual, vraiment,” he conceded. "And have you unwrapped him or perhaps X-rayed her?” "Well, yes and no.” "Comment? Out et non? Is this perhaps some of the famous double talk of which one hears so much?” "Not exactly,” our host grinned. "I meant to say that I’ve unwrapped the first layer of bandages, the crust or shell that’s plastered with bitumen, you know, and sub- jected the mummy wrapped in its inner bandages, to the fluoroscope — ” "Yes? And then, Monsieur ?” de Grandin prompted as Dr. Taylor paused so long it seemed he had no more to say. "That’s just it, Dr. de Grandin. It isn’t well at all. What I’ve found confirms my first suspicions that I’ve an unlucky’ mummy on my hands. "Woeltjin, Dr. Oris Woeltjin, found this mummy in a cleverly hidden tomb between Nagada and Der El-Bahri, on the very east- ern border of the Lybian Desert, territory given up as thoroughly worked over years ago. While they were excavating two of his jallaheen were bitten by tomb spiders and died in terrible convulsions. That in itself was unusual, for while the Egyptian tomb spider’s an ugly-looking brute, he’s not par- ticularly venomous; I’ve been bitten by ’em half a dozen times and not suffered half as much as when stung by a scorpion. This must have impressed the rest of his work- men, too, for they deserted in a body, but Woeltjin stuck it out, and with the help of such neighborhood men as he could hire for double wages he finally reached the funerary chamber. "That was only the beginning. He had the devil’s own time getting down the Nile with it. Half the crew of his dehabeeyah came down with some sort of mysterious fever, several of ’em died and all the rest went overside, so it was almost two weeks before he’d finished a trip which in ordinary circumstances would have taken five days at most. The Egyptian government doesn’t let you take a mummy out these days, but Woeltjin was an old hand at the game. He wheedled where he could and bribed where he had to, and finally smuggled the thing out disguised as a crate of Smyrna sponges; got it as far as Liverpool, and died. "The mummy knocked around the wharves and warehouses at Liverpool for al- most two years, the war kept it there still longer, but finally it arrived, and— believe it or not! — our shipping department actually took it for a lot of sponges and let it lie around our storeroom almost two more years. The curator discovered it purely by accident last week. Well, with that back- ground, what I found yesterday just about confirmed my suspicions that the thing’s un- lucky.” JULES DE GRANDIN leaned forward in his chair. "Non d’un million moustiques pestiferes, Monsieur , what was it you dis- covered?” he demanded. “Me, I am con- sumed with curiosity.” Taylor smiled a trifle grimly. "The fluoro- scope revealed the bony structure of the chest had been broken. Either she had died from an injury in what corresponded to the modern traffic accident, or” — he paused and took a sip of brandy — “she suffered death by a ritual roughly corresponding to the peine forte et dure of the medieval English criminal courts — crushed to death beneath a great pile of rocks, you know.” "But it might have been an accident,” I objected. "Those two-wheeled chariots of

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12 WEIRD TALES ancient days weren’t very stable vehicles, and it would have been quite possible — ” "Possible, but not probable, in view of what the papyrus says,” Dr. Taylor cut in. "I found the sheet of writing tucked be- tween two layers of bandages — surrepti- tiously, I’d say — just after I’d completed my fluoroscopic inspection.” De Grandin tweaked the needle-points of his small wheat-blond mustache, "liens. Monsieur, why do you torment us thus, mak- ing a long story still longer? What did it say, this twenty-times-accursed papyrus of yours?” "Plenty,” Dr. Taylor answered. "I haven’t finished translating it, but even its beginning has an air of eerie mystery. She describes herself as Nefra-Kemmah, servant of the Most High Mother, the Homed One, the Lady of the Moon — in fine, a priestess ©f the Goddess Isis. You get the implica- tion?” I shook my head; de Grandin leveled one of his unwinking cat-stares at our host, but made no answer, "The priestess of Isis, unlike the servants of all other Mother-Goddesses of ancient days— Aphrodite and Tanith, for instance — • were vowed to chastity and were as com- pletely celebate as Vestal Virgins or Chris- tian nuns. If one of them forgot her sacred obligations even to the small extent of look- ing at or speaking to a man outside the priesthood the consequences were decidedly unpleasant. If she, as the saying goes, 'loved not wisely but too well,’ death by torture was the penalty. This might take several forms. Burial alive, wrapped and bandaged like a mummy, but with the face exposed to permit breathing, was one form of inflicting the punishment. Another was to crush her erring heart to pulp beneath a great pile of stones. ...” " Parbleu de Grandin murmured. "This poor one, then, v/as one of those unfortu- nates— ” "All signs point to it. She was a priestess, vowed to chastity on pain of death; her ribs have been crushed in; her coffin bears no in- scription, not even so much as a brush mark. It seems not only death, but oblivion had been her potion. Nov/, perhaps, you under- stand why I’m inclined to be jumpy. It’s all right to say 'stuff and nonsense’ when you hear unlucky mummies talked of, but any Egyptologist can cite instance after instance of 'accidents’ occurring to those who come in contact with the mummies of those who died under interdict.” "What else did the papyrus say — or have you gotten any farther?” I asked. "Humph, The farther I get into it the more I’m puzzled. You know something of Egyptian medical ideas?” "A little,” Jules de Grandin admitted, "but I would not presume to discuss them with you, Monsieur.” TAYLOR smiled appreciation of the com- pliment. "They had some odd notions. They thought, for instance, that the arteries con- tained air, that the seat of the emotions was the heart, and that anger generated in the spleen.” "Perfectly,” de Grandin nodded. "But they were far in advance of their contemporaries, and even of the Greeks and Romans, for they had partly grasped the truth that reason resided in the brain. Re- member that, for what comes next ties in with it. "The Egyptians were probably the " first great people of antiquity to formulate a defi- nite idea of immortality. That was their reason for mummification of their dead. They believed that when three thousand years had passed the soul returned to claim its body, and without a fleshy tenement to welcome it, it would have to wander bodi- less and homeless in Amend, the realm of the damned. As the Priestess Nefra-Kem- mah lived during the XVIIIth Dynasty — - roughly somewhere between 1575 and 1359 B.C., she should now be about ready — ” "Ah?” murmured Jules de Grandin. "Ah- ha? You think—” "I don’t think anything. I’m only puz- zled. Instead of praying to the gods to guide her wandering ka or vital principle back to her waiting body, Nefra-Kemmah asserts — states positively — she will rise again with the help of one who lives, and by the power of the brain. That is absolutely unique. Never before, to, my knowledge, has such a thing been heard of. Even those who died apostate sought the pity of the gods and begged forgiveness for their sin of unbelief.

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LORDS OF THE GHOSTLANDS 13 beseeching divine assistance in attaining resurrection. This little priestess declares categorically she will rise again with the help of a living human being and by the power of the brain.” He drew an envelope from his pocket and scribbled a notation on it. "Repeatedly I found these idiographs,” he told us as he held the paper out for our inspection. "The first one signifies ’arise,’ or, by ex- tension, 7 shall arise,’ and the second means almost, though not quite, the same thing. ’Awake,’ or 7 shall aivake to life.’ And always, she repeats that she will do it by the power of the brain, which complicates the message still farther.” "How’s that?” I asked. aTT7HY, if she’s a mummy she can have » ' no brain. One of the first steps of Egyptian embalming was to withdraw, the brain by means of a metallic hook inserted through the nose.” "She surely must have known that,” I began, but before our host could answer we heard laughter on the porch, a key clicked in the front door, and Vella Taylor swept into the drawing room with an unusually good- looking young soldier in her wake. "Hullo, Daddy-Man,” she greeted as she planted a quick kiss on Taylor’s bald spot. "Good evening, Dr. Trowbridge — Dr. de Grandin. This is Harrock Hall, my most ’special-par- ticular boy friend. Sorry, I couldn’t be here for dinner tonight, but Harrock’s ordered away to camp early tomorrow, so I ran around to his house. It wouldn’t have seemed fair to have taken him from his mother and father on his last night home, and I knew I wanted to be with him just as much as possible, so — what’ re you folks drinking? Cognac?” She made a face sug- gestive of vinegar mixed with castor oil. "Vile stuff! Come on, treasure,” she linked her hand in the young soldier’s. "Let’s us see if we can promote some Benedictine and Spanish brandy. That’s got a scratch and tastes good, too.” "You will inform us of developments?” de Grandin asked as we prepared to go. "This so remarkable young lady who had courage to defy the priests who had con- demned her and declared that in spite of their sentence to oblivion she would rise again, she interests me.” IT MUST have been toward three o’clock when the persistent ringing of the tele- phone awakened me. The voice that came across the wire was agonized, almost hysteri- cal, but doctors get used to that. "This is Granville Taylor, Trowbridge. Can you come right over? It’s Vella — she’s had some sort of seizure. . . .” "What sort?” I intempted. "Does she complain of pain?” "I don’t know if she's in pain or not. She’s unconscious — perfectly rigid, and — ” "I’ll be there just as fast as gasoline can bring me,” I assured him as I hung up and fished for the clothes which years of prac- tice had taught me to keep folded on a bed- side chair. "What makes, mon vieux?” de Grandin asked as he heard me stirring. "Is it that Monsieur Taylor has met with the accident he feared — •” "No, it’s his daughter. She’s had some sort of seizure, he says — she’s rigid and un- conscious.” "Pardieu, that pretty, happy creature? Let me go with you, my friend, if you please. Perhaps I can be of assistance.” ■ Her father had not overstated her condi- tion when he said that Vella was rigid. From head to foot she was as stiff as some- thing frozen; taut, hard as a hypnotist’s as- sistant in a trance. We could not chafe her hands for they were set so stiffly that the flesh was absolutely unyielding. It might have been a lovely waxen tailor’s dummy over which we bent rather than the happy, vibrant, vital girl to whom we’d said good- night a few hours before. Treatment was futile. She lay as hard and rigid as if petri- fied. As if she had been dead, her tempera- ture was exactly that of the surrounding at- mosphere, the uncanny hardness of the flesh persisted, and she was unresponsive to all stimuli, save that the pupils of her set and

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14 WEIRD TALES staring eyes showed slight contraction when we flashed a light in them. There was prac- tically no pulse perceptible, and when we drove a hypodermic needle in her arm to administer a dose of strychnine, there was no reflex flinching of the skin, and the im- pression we had was more like thrusting a needle through some tough waxy substance than into living flesh. As far as we could see vital functions were suspended. Yet she was not paralyzed in the ordinary sense of the term. 'Of that much we were certain. "Is — is it epilepsy?” Dr. Taylor asked fearfully. “Her mother had a brother who — ” "Non, calm yourself, my friend,” soothed de Grandin. “It is not the epilepsy, of that I can assure you.” To me he added in a whis- per: "But what it is le bon Dieu only knows!” The dawn was brightening in the east when she began to show signs of recovery. The dreadful stiffness, so like rigor-mortis, gave way gradually, and the set and horrified expression of her eyes was replaced by a look of recognition. The rigid, hard lines faded from her cheeks and jaw, and her slender bosom fluttered with a gasp of res- piration as a little sigh escaped her. The words she spoke I could not understand, for they were uttered in a mumbling undertone, strung together closely, like an invocation hurriedly pronounced, but it seemed to me they had a harsh and guttural sound, as though containing many consonants, utterly unlike any lanuguage I had ever heard be- fore. Now the whisper gave way to a chant, sung softly in an eerie rising cadence with a sharply accented note at the end of every measure. Over and over, the same meaning- less jargon, a weird and wavering tune vaguely like a Gregorian chant. One single word I recognized, or thought I did, though whether it really were a word or whether my mind broke Its syllables apart and fitted them to the sound of a more or less familiar name I could not be sure; but it seemed to me that constantly recurring in the rapid flow of mumbled invocation was a sibilant disyllable, much like the letter s said twice in quick succession. "Is she trying to say 'Isis’?” I asked, rais- ing my eyes from her fluttering lips. De Grandin was regarding her intently with that fixed, unwinking stare which I had seen him hold for minutes when we were in the amphitheatre of a hospital and a piece of unique surgery was in progress. He waved an irritated hand at me, but neither spoke nor shifted the intentness of his gaze. The flow of senseless words grew slower, thinner, as though the force behind the twitching red lips were lessening, but the weird soft chant continued its four soft minor notes slurred endlessly. Now her enunciation seemed more perfect, and al- most without effort we could recognize a phrase that kept recurring: O Nefra-Kem- mah nehes — Nehes, O Nefra-Kemmah!” "Good God!” exclaimed Dr. Taylor. “D’ye get it, gentlemen? She’s chanting, ' Nefra-Kemmah , awake — Arise, O Nefra- Kemmah!’ Nefra-Kemmah was the name of that priestess of Isis I told you of last night, remember? In her delirium she’s identify- ing herself with the mummy!” "She probably heard you talking of it — "I’m hanged if she did. You were the only two to whom I’ve mentioned it outside the Museum. I knew de Grandin has a taste for the occult, and you were to be relied on, Trowbridge, but as for mentioning that mummy to anybody else — no! D’ye think I’d want my daughter to think me a supersti- tious old fool, or would I court the pitying smiles of other outsiders? I tell you she never heard that cursed mummy’s name, yet — ” "S-h-sh, she awakes,” de Grandin warned. Vela Taylor looked from Jules de Gran- din to me, then past us to her father. "Daddy!” she exclaimed. "O, Daddy, dear, I’ve been so frightened!” "Frightened, dear? Of what?” Taylor dropped to his knees beside the bed and took her hands in his. "Who’s been trying to scare my little girl?” SHE smiled a little ruefully. "I — I don’t quite know,” she confessed, "but who- ever set out to do it surely got away with it. "I think if must have been those horrible old men.” "Old men. Mademoiselle ?” de Grandin echoed. "Who and where were they, one asks to know? Tell me and I shall have

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(lords of the ghostlands 1? great pleasure in kicking their false teeth out — ” “Oh, they weren’t really men at all, just dream-images, I suppose. But they seemed terribly real, and oh, how dreadfully afraid of them I was!” "Tell us of it, if you please, ma belle. You have suffered a severe shock. Perhaps it was the result of nightmare, perhaps not; at any rate, if you can bring yourself to discuss the painful subject — ” "Of course, sir. Talking of it may help sweep my memory clear. Harrock left a little after you did, for he had to catch an early train this morning, and I came right upstairs and cried myself to sleep. Sometime this morning — I don’t quite know when, but it must have been a little before three, for the moon had risen late and it was very bright when I awakened — I woke up with a dreadful sense of thirst. It must have been that crying made me feel so, I. can’t account for it otherwise; at any rate I was utterly de- hydrated, and went to get a glass of water from the bathroom tap. When I came back to my room the first thing that I noticed was that a single shaft of moonlight was slanting through the window and striking full upon the mirror,” she gestured toward the full- length glass that stood against the farther wall. “Something, I don’t know what, seemed urging me to go and look into the glass. When I stopped before it, it seemed the moonlight had robbed it of its power of reflection. I couldn’t see myself in it at all.” "Ah?” de Grandin nodded. "You cast no shadow?” "None at all, sir. Instead, the mirror seemed to be glossed over with a layer of opaque silver — not quite opaque, either, but rather irridescent. I could see small points of light reflected in it, and somehow they seemed moving, whirling round and round each other like a swarm of luminous midges, and burning with an intense blue, cold flame. Gradually the glowing pinpoints of light changed from their spinning to a slow, weaving pattern. The luminous sheet they spread across the mirror seemed breaking up, forming a definite design of highlights and shadows. It was as if the mirror were a window and through it I looked out upon another world. "The place I looked into was bright with moonlight, almost as bright as day. It was a long, wide, lofty collonaded building. I thought at first from what I’d heard Daddy say that it must be a temple of some sort, and in a moment I was sure of it, for I could hear the tinkling of sistra shaken in unison, and the low, sweet chanting of the priest- esses. They knelt in a long double row, those sweet, slim girls, all gowned in robes of white linen, with bands of silver set with lapis lazuli bound about their brows. Their heads were bowed and their hands raised and held at stiff right angles to their wrists as they sang softly. Presently a young man came into the temple and walked slowly to- ward the altar-place. Despite the fact his head was shaven smooth, I thought him ut- terly beautiful, with full red lips, a firm, strong chin and great, soft, thoughtful eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on the tiles as he walked toward the altar, but just before he put aside the silver veil that hung before the face of Isis he glanced back and his eyes fell with a sort of sad reproachfulness upon the kneeling girl nearest him. I saw a flush mount up her throat and cheeks and brow, and she bent her head still lower as she sang, but somehow, though she gave no sign, I knew a thought-message had passed between them. Then slowly he passed be- yond the veil and was gone. "Suddenly to the chanting of the priest- esses was joined the heavier chant of men singing in a sort of harsh harmony. Instinc- tively I knew what was transpiring. The young man I had seen had gone into the sanctuary of Great Isis to become one of her priests. He was being initiated into her mys- teries. She would flood him with her spirit, and he would be hers for eternity. He would put away the love of woman and the hope of children, and devote himself whole- heartedly to the service of the Great All- Mother. The priestess I had seen blush knew it, too, for I could see the tears fall from be- neath her lowered lids, and her slender body shook with sobs which she could not control. “Then slowly, as if steam were forming on the mirror, everything became cloudy, and in a moment the scene in the temple was completely hidden, but gradually the vapot cleared away and I was looking out into bright daylight. The sun shone almost daz- zlingly on a temple’s painted pylon. In the

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16 WEIRD TALES forecourt -the sacred birds were feeding, and jets of water glinted jewel-bright from a fountain. A woman walked across the court- yard toward the splashing fountain, the priestess I had seen before. She was robed in a white linen shift that left her bosom and her ankles bare. Sandals of papyrus shod her slender henna-reddened feet, and jewels were on her arms. A band of silver set with lapis lazuli crowned the hair which she wore cut in a shoulder-length bob. In one hand she held a lotus bud and with the other she balanced a painted water pot on her bare shoulder. ^QUDDENLY, from the deep shadow kJ cast by the high temple gate, an old man tottered. He was very feeble, but his rage and hatred seemed to impart power to his limbs as wires moved a marionette. By his red robe and blue -turban and his flowing milk-white beard, no less than by his fea- tures, I knew him to be a Hebrew. He planted himself in the girl’s path and let forth a perfect spate of invective. Of their actual words I could hear nothing, but sub- jectively I seemed to know what passed be- tween them. He was reviling her for proselyting his son from the worship of the Lord Jehovah, for the Jewish youth, it seemed, had seen her and gone mad with love of her, because her vows made it impos- sible for them to wed, he had abjured his race and kin and God to take the vows of Isis, so that he might be near her in the -temple and commune with her in common worship of the goddess. “The little priestess heard the old man through, then turned away contemptuously with a curt, 'Jewish dog, thou snarlest fiercely, but wherewith hast thou teeth to bite?’ and the old man raised his hands to heaven and called a curse on her, declaring she should find no peace in life or death until atonement had been made; until she burned against the heathen gods she wor- shipped and bore testimony to their down- fall through another’s lips. " 'How sayest thou, old dotard?’ asked the girl. 'Our gods are powerful and everlast- ing. We rule the world by their favor. Is it likely that I should turn from them? And if I did, how could it be that I should speak through the lips of another? Shall I become as one of those magicians the Greeks call polyphonists, who make a stick or stone of brute beast seem to talk because they have the power of voice-throwing?’ "Once more the scene shifted, and I looked out upon a moonlit night. The stars seemed almost within reach overhead, and there blew such a soft perfume on the moon- drenched air that you could almost see it take shape like dancing butterflies. In the deep blue shadow of the temple pylon crouched the priest and priestess, clinging to each other with the desperation of denied love. I saw her rest her curling shoulder- length-cut hair upon his shoulder, saw her turn her face up to his with eyes closed and lips a little parted, saw him kiss her brow, her closed eyes, her yearning, eager mouth, her pulsing throat, the gentle swell of her bare bosom . . . then like a pack of hounds that rush in for the kill, I saw the Hebrews pounce upon him. Knives flashed in the moonlight, curses hard and sharp as knife- blades spewed from their lips. 'Apostate swine, turncoat, backslider, renegade!’ they called him, and with every bitter curse there was another biting stab. He fell and lay upon the sands, his life-blood spurting from a dozen mortal wounds, and as his murder- ers turned away I seemed to hear the patter of bare feet upon the tiles, and half a dozen shaven-headed priests of Isis came running. 'What passes here?’ there leader, an old man, panted angrily. 'Thou Jewish dogs, if thou hast — ’ "The leader of the assassins interrupted with a scornful laugh: 'Naught passes here, old bare-poll, all is passed. We took one of your priests and priestesses red-handed in infidelity. The man we dealt with, for afore- time he had been one of us; the woman we leave to thy vengeance, ’tis said thou hast a way of treating such.’ “I saw the priests seiz,e the poor, stricken, trembling girl and lead her unresistingly away. “Then once again the mirror clouded, and when it cleared I was looking full into the little priestess’ face. She seemed to stand directly behind the glass, as close as my own reflection should have been, and she held out her hands beseechingly to me, begging me to -help her. But my power of under- standing was gone. Though I saw her lips

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LORDS OF THE GHOSTLANDS 17 move in appeal I could make nothing of the words she strove so desperately to pro- nounce, although she seemed repeating something with a deadly, terrible insistence. "Then suddenly I felt a dreadful cold come in the air, not the chill of the wind from the opened window, but one of those subjective chills we sometimes have that make us say, 'Someone is walking over my grave.’ Instinctively I felt the presence of another person in my bedroom. Someone — no, something had come in while I watched the changing pictures in the mirror. "I turned to look across my shoulder — and there they were. I think that there were five of them, though possibly there were seven — old men in long white robes with dreadful masks upon their faces. One wore a bull’s head, another a mask like a jackal, another had a falsef ace -like a giant hawk’s head, and still another wore a headdress like a lion’s face — ” “If they were masked how did you know they were old men?” I asked. "I kneiv it. Their eyes were bright with a fierce, supernatural light, the kind of gleam that only those who are both old and wicked have in their eyes, and the flesh of their forearms had shrunk away from the muscles, leaving them to stand out like thick cords. Their hands and feet were knotty and mis- shapen with the ugliness of age, and the bones and tendons showed like painted lines against the skin. "They grouped behind me in a semi- circle, staring at me menacingly, and though they made no sound I knew that they were threatening me with something dreadful if I acceded to the little priestess’ entreaty. " ‘Vella Taylor, you are dreaming,’ I told myself, and closed my eyes and shook my head. When I opened them again the hor- rible old masked men still stood there, but it seemed to me they had come a step nearer. “The priestess in the mirror seemed to see them, too, for suddenly she threw her hands up as if to ward off a blow, made a frenzied gesture to me as if to warn me to escape, and turned away. Then she disappeared in vapor, and I was left alone with those ter- rific, silent shapes. " 'I won’t be bluffed by anything so ut- terly absurd,’ I declared, and started toward tire door. The masked men drew together, barring my way. I turned toward the bed and they shrank back toward the comers of the room. Then I lay down and closed my eyes. 'I’ll count up to a thousand,' I said, 'When I’m done counting I’ll open my eyes, and they’ll be gone.’ "But they weren’t. In every corner of the room they hunched and crouched and panted, waiting the moment to pounce. "I felt stark panic hammering at me; ter- ror yammered at my will, abysmal fear ripped at my nerves, and when I tried to call to Daddy I could make no sound. A dreadful weight seemed pressing on me, so heavy I could not endure it; I felt it crushing out my breath, cracking my ribs, breaking every bone in my body. My eyes seemed starting from my face, I could feel my tongue protruding from my mouth, and . . “Yes, Mademoiselle, and then?” de Grandin prompted as she ceased talking with a shudder. "Then I saw you and Dr. Trowbridge and my own dear Daddy standing by me, and the terrible old men had gone away. You won’t let them come back, will you?” "Be assured, Mademoiselle, if they come back while I am here they shall indubitably wish they had not. Now it is time for you to get some rest and gather bade your strength. "Will you prepare the hypo, good Friend Trowbridge?” he asked me. <STVYE realize what Vella saw was the U Infernal Assizes of Old Egypt?” Dr. Taylor whispered as we tiptoed from the bed chamber. "The Infernal Assizes?” I repeated. "Precisely. When a man died the Egyp- tians believed his soul was led by Thoth and Anubis to Amend, where it stood trial be- fore the Judges of the Dead. These included hawk-headed Kebhsnauf, ape-headed Tau- matet, dog-visaged Hapi, cat-headed Bes, and, of course, ox-headed Osiris. Similarly, when a living person was accused of here- sey, a court of priests made up to represent the infernal deities tried him or her. The Priestess Nefra-Kemmah must have stood trial before just such a tribunal.” ''Ah?” de Grandin murmured. "Ah-ha? Ah-ha-ha?” "What is it?” "I am persuaded, Frien4 Taylor, that

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18 WEIRD TALES what your daughter saw was more than 'such stuff as dreams are made on’ — or, to be more explicit, just such stuff as that of which a dream is compounded, namely, thought-force. Just what it is I do not know, but somewhere there is an influence running from the mummy of the Priestess Nefra- Kemmah to Mademoiselle your daughter. The poor, misfortunate priestess seeks her aid, the ghostly old ones would prevent it. The daylight quickens in the east, my friend. Soon it will be full day. We shall arrange to have a nurse attend Mademoiselle Vella, and if you will be so kind we shall repair to the Museum and inspect this precious mummy of yours." "H’m, that’s a bit irregular,” Taylor de- murred. “Irregular, ha? And by damn-it, was it not irregular for Mademoiselle your daugh- ter to be vouchsafed a glimpse of the old times, to watch the unfolding of the ro- mance of those so sadly unfortunate lovers, and to see the olden ones from the parapets pf hell come trooping into her bed chamber? Parbleu, I damn think yes!” WITH a precision rivaling that of a jew- eler, Dr. Taylor cut away the criss- crossed bandages of yellowed linen that swathed the mummy of the Priestess Nefra- Kemmah. Yard after endless yard he reeled off, finally coming to a strong, seamless shroud drawn sackwise over the body and tied at the foot with a stout cord. The cloth of which the bag was made seemed stouter and heavier than the bandages, and was heavily coated with beeswax or some cera- ceous substance, the whole being, appar- ently, both air- and water-tight. “Why, bless my soul, I never saw a thing like this before!” exclaimed Dr. Taylor. '‘Monsieur, unless I am more greatly mis- taken than I have any right to suppose, I make no doubt there are at least a dozen things in this case which will be novelties to you,” de Qrandin answered rather grimly. "Come, cut away that seventeen-times- damned sack. I would see what lies within it. "Ah-ha?” he exclaimed as with a gentle twitching motion Dr. Taylor worked the waxed bag upward from the mummy’s shoulders. "Que diable?" The body that came gradually in view beneath the blue-white glare of the electric lights was not technically a mummy, though the aromatic spices in the coffin and the sterile, arid atmosphere of Egypt had com- bined to keep it in a state of almost perfect preservation. The feet, first parts to be ex- posed, were- small and beautifully formed, with long straight toes and narrow heels and high-arched insteps, the digits as well as the whole plantar region stained brilliant red •with henna. There was astonishingly little desiccation, and though the terminal ten- dons of the brevis digitorum showed promi- nently through the skin the effect was by no means revolting; I had seen equal promi- nence of felxor muscles in living feet where the patient had suffered considerable emaci- ation. The ankles, were sharp and shapely, the legs straight and well turned, with the lean- ness of youth rather than the wasted look of death; the hips were narrow, almost boyish, the waist slender, and the gently swelling bosom high and sharp. "Morbleu, Friend Taylor, you had right when you said she had suffered grievous hurt before she died,” de Grandin mur- mured as the waxed sack slid over the body’s shoulders. I looked across his shoulder and gulped back an exclamation of horrified amazement. The slimly tapering arms had been folded demurely on the breast in accordance with Egyptian custom, but the humerus of the left arm had been cruelly crushed, resulting in a compound comminutive fracture, so that an inch or more of splintered bone had thrust through the skin above the deltoid at- tachment. The same cruel blow that crushed the arm had smashed the bony structure of the chest, the third and fourth ribs had snapped in two, and through die smooth skin underneath the breast a prong of bone protruded. "La pauvre!” de Grandin mur- mured. "Fi done! By damn-it, if I could but come to grips with those who did this thing I should — ” He paused in mid-word, pursed his lips as if about to whistle, then whis- pered half-thoughtfuily, half-gleefully, "Nom d’un pore vert, e’est possible!” “What’s possible?” I demanded, but his only answer was a shrug as he diverted his gaze to the face exposed as Dr. Taylor drew

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LORDS OF THE GHOSTLANDS the sack away. The features were those of a woman in her early youth. Semetic in their cast, they had a delicacy of line and contour which bespoke patrician breeding. The nose was small, high-bridged, a little aquiline, with slim, aristocratic nostrils. The lips were thin and sensitive, and where they had retracted in the process of partial desiccation showed small, sharp teeth of startling white- ness. The hair was black and lustrous, cut in a shoulder-length bob that seemed amaz- ingly modern, and bound about the brows was a circlet of hammered silver set with small studs of lapis lazuli. For the rest, a triple-stranded necklace of gold and blue enamel, armlets of the same design, and a narrow golden girdle fashioned like a snake composed her costume. Originally a full, plaited skirt of sheer white linen had been appended to the girdle that circled her slim torso just beneath the bosom, but the fragile fabric had not been able to withstand the years of waiting in the tomb, and only one or two thin whisps remained. "La pauvre belle creature!” de Grandin repeated. "If it were only possible — ” "I think we’d better wrap the body up again,” Dr. Taylor broke in. "To tell the truth. I’m just a little nervous — ” “You fear,” de Grandin did not ask a question, he made an assertion. “You fear the ancient gods of olden Egypt may take offense at our remaining here to speculate upon the manner of this poor one’s death — or murder, one should say.” "Well, you must admit there’ve been some unexpected things happening in con- nection with this mummy — if you can call it that, for technically it’s never been’ em- balmed at all, just preserved by the aroma- tics sprinkled in the coffin, and — ” "One understands and agrees,” de Gran- din nodded. "There have been unexpected happenings, as you say, Friend Taylor, and unless I’m more mistaken than I think, there will be more before we finish. I should say — gran Dieu cles pommes de terre, observe her, if you please!” As Dr. Taylor had reminded us, the body had not been embalmed but merely pre- served by the spices strewn around it and the almost hermetic sealing of the coffin and waxed shroud. It had been dehydrated in the years since burial so that blood, tissue and bones while retaining their contours had been reduced to something less stable than talcum powder. Now, beneath the impact of the fresh damp air and Dr. Taylor’s gentle handling the triturated body-substance be- gan crumbling. There was nothing horrify- ing in the process. Rather, it was as if we witnessed the slow disintegration of a lovely image moulded in sand or chalk-dust. "Sic transit bellitas mundi murmured Jules de Grandin as the shape before us lost its human semblance.- "At least we’ve seen her in the flesh, which is a thing those wicked old ones never thought would hap- pen, and you, Alonsieur still have the coffin and her priceless ornaments for souvenirs. They are decidedly worthwhile, and — ” "Damn her coffin and her ornaments!” Dr. Taylor cut in sharply. "What frightens me is what this devilish business may do to my girl. She’s already partially identified herself with Nefra-Kemmah and saw a vi- sion of the priestly court that condemned her to be crushed to death beneath great stones. If that vision keeps recurring — isn’t there some way we can break up this obses- sion— ” "By blue, there is, Monsieur,” de Gran- din assured him. "Precisely as a phobia may be overcome by showing him who suffers from it that it has no basis, so we can clear the vision of those wicked old ones from your daughter’s mind. Of that I am per- suaded. But die treatment will not be ortho- dox— ” "I don’t care what it is. D’ye realize her sanity may be at stake?” "Perfectly, Monsieur, Have we your con- sent to proceed?” "Of course-—” "Tres bon. Tonight, at your convenience, we shall call at your house, and unless I am far more mistaken than I think, we shall give battle to and wrest a victory from those shapes that haunt the darkness. Yes. Cer- tainly. Of course.” ALL day he was as busy and as bustling as a bluebottle fly. Calling on the tele- phone repeatedly, swearing poisonously im- probable French oaths when he found our Friend John Thunstone had been called away from New York on a case, rushing to the Library to consult some books the libra-

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20 WEIRD TALES rian had never heard of, but managed to dig up from dust-hidden obscurity at his insist- ence; finally dashing to the wholesale poul- try market to secure something which he brought home in a thermos bottle and placed with loving care in the sterilizing cabinet of the surgery. At dinner he was al- most silent, absent-mindedly forgetting to request a third helping of the lobster cardi- nal, a dish of which he was inordinately fond, and almost failing to refill his glass with Poully-Fuisse a fourth time. “You’ve figured everything out?” I asked as we began dessert. "Corbleu, I' only wish I had,” he an- swered as he raised a forkful of apple tart to his lips. "I used brave words to Monsieur Taylor, Friend Trowbridge, but just be- tween the two of us I do not know if I am right or wrong. I grope, I feel my way, I stumble in the dark like a blind man in an unfamiliar street. I have an hypothesis, but it cannot yet be called a theory, and there is not time to test it. I warn you, what we do tonight may be dangerous. You can ill be spared to suffering humanity, my friend. The sick and ailing need your help. If you prefer to stay at home while I give battle to these olden forces of evil I shall not feel offended. It is not only your privilege, it is almost your duty to remain away — ” "Have I ever let you down?” I broke in reproachfully. “Have I ever stayed behind because of danger — •” "Non, par la barbs d’un bouc vert, that you have not, brave comrade.” he denied. "You may not be a. trained occultist, but what you lack in training you make up in courage and loyalty, dear friend. You are one in twenty million, and I love you, vieux comrade, may the devil serve me hot with sauce bordelaise for his dinner if I do not!” SHORTLY after nine o’clock that evening we gathered in the recreation room of Dr. Taylor’s house. Vella, looking little worse for her attack of the night before, was wearing a black velvet dinner dress, quiet and unadorned, save for a great intricate gold pin which emphasized by contrast the ivory of her complexion and the dark misti- ness of her black hair. De Grandin set his stage precisely. Drib- bling red liquid from his thermos bottle, he traced a double interlaced triangle across the tiled floor and placed four chairs inside it. "Now, Mademoiselle, if you will be so kind,” he invited with a bow to Veila. She dropped into an armchair, hands folded demurely in her lap, head lolling back against the cushions. The little Frenchman took his stand be- fore her, drew out a small gold pencil and held it vertically in front of her face. "Mademoiselle,” he ordered, "you will please be kind enough to look at this — at its very tip, if you will. So. Good. Excellent. Observe him closely.” Deliberately, as one who beats time to a slow andante tune, he v/ove the little gleam- ing pencil back and forth, describing ara- besques and intricate interlacing figures in the air. Vella watched him languidly from under long black lashes, but gradually her attention became fixed. We saw her eyes follow every motion of the pencil, finally converge toward each ocher until it seemed she made some sort of grotesque grimace; then the lids came down across her great dark eyes and her head moved slightly side- wise as her neck muscles relaxed. Fler folded hands fell loosely open on her velvet dad knees, and she was, to all appearances, sleeping peacefully. Presently the regular, light heaving of her bosom and her softly sibulated, regular light breathing told us she had indeed fallen asleep. De Grandin returned the pencil to his pocket, put his fists upon his hips and held his arms akimbo as he regarded her steadily. “You ca.n hear me, cannot you, Mademoi- selle?” he demanded. "I can hear you,” she repeated drowsily. "Bien. You will rest a moment, then, as the inclination moves you, say whatever comes into your mind. You understand?” “I understand.” For something like five breathless minutes we waited in silence. I could hear the great clock in the hall above: "Tick-tock — tick- tock!” and the soft hiss of a green log burn- ing in the fireplace, then, gradualy, but cer- tainly, for no reason I could think of, the room began to grow colder. A hard, dull bitterness of cold that seemed to affect the spirit as well as the body pervaded the at- mosphere; a biting, searing cold suggestive

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LORDS OF THE GHOSTLANEQ 21 of the limitless freezing eternities of inter- stellar space. " Ah-ha !” I heard de Grandin’s small strong teeth click sharply, like a pair of castanets. "Ah-ha-ha\ It seems you did not wait a second invitation, Messieurs las Singe ries.” How they came there I had no idea, but there they were — a semi-circle of old men in flowing robes of 'white linen, masked with headgear simulating hawks, jackals, lions, apes and oxen. They stood in a grim, silent crescent, looking at us with dull, lack-luster eyes, the very embodiment of inhibitory hatred. "Mademoiselle,” de Grandin whispered, "the time has come for you to speak, if you call And the words.” The sleeping girl moaned softly, tried to articulate, then seemed to choke upon a word. The semi-circle of grim silent watchers moved a step nearer, and the cold that theretofore had been a mere discomfort be- came a positive torture. The nearest of the shadowy masked figures reached the point of one of the interlaced triangles, paused irresolutely a moment, then shrank back. "Sa-ha, Monsieur Tete de Singe, you do not like him, . hein ?” de Grandin asked with a short spiteful laugh. "Have patience. Monsieur Monkey-Face; there is to come that which you will like still less.” He glanced across his shoulder at the girl. "Speak, Mademoiselle. Speak up and fear no evil!” "Lords of the Ghostland,” came a voice from Vella Taylor’s lips, but it was not her voice. There was an indefinable and eerie undercurrent to the tone that sent a shiver tingling up our spines. Her words were slurred and langorous, yet strangely mechan- ical, as though an unseen hand were play- ing a gramaphone: "Revered and dreadful judges of the worlds of flesh and spirit, ye awful ones who sit upon the parapets of hell, I answer guilty to the charge ye bring against me. Aye, Nefra-Kemmah who stands, now before ye on the brink of deathless death, whose body waits the crushing stones of doom, whose spirit, robbed forever of the hope of fleshly tenement, must wander -till time blends into eternity, confesses that the fault was hers, and hers alone. "Behold me, awesome judges of the liv- ing and the dead, am I not a woman, and a woman shaped for love? Are not my mem- bers beautiful to see, my lips like apricots and pomegranates, my eyes like milk and beryl, my breasts like ivory set with coral? Yes, mighty ones, I am a woman, and a woman formed for joy. "Was it my fault or my volition that I was pledged to serve the Great All-Mother or ever I had looked upon the daylight? Did I abjure the blissful agony of love and seek a life of sterile chastity, or was the promise spoken for me by another’s lips? "I gave ail that a woman has to give, and gave it gladly, knowing that the pains of death, and after death the torment of the gods awaited me, nor do I deem the price too high a one to pay. “■yE FROWN. Ye shake your dreadful -i-heads upon which rest the crowns of Amun and of Kneph, of Seb and Tem, of Suti, and Osiris’ mighty self. Ye whisper one to other that I speak sacrilege. Then hear me yet awhile: She who stands in chains before you, shorn of all reverence as a priestess, stripped of all honor as a woman, tells ye this to your teeth; knowing that ye cannot do her greater hurt than she stands prejudged to endure. Your reign and that of those ye serve draws to 'a close. A little while ye still may strut and preen yourselves and mouth the judgments of your gods, but in the days to come your very names shall be forgot save when some stranger from an- other time and place drags forth your with- ered mummies from the tomb and sets them up to make a show of. Aye, and the gods ye serve shall be forgotten. They shall be sunk so low that none shall be found in the world to do them reverence; none to call on their names, not even as a curse, and in their ruined temples there shall not be found a living thing except the fearful, whimpering jackal and the white-bellied lizard. "And who shall do this thing to them and ye? An offspring of the Hebrews. Yea, from the race of him I loved and for whose sake I trod my vows of cold sterility into the desert sand, from that race that ye despise and hate shall come a child and unto Him shall be all glory. He shall put down your gods beneath His feet and spoil

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22 < WEIRD TALES them of all respect; they shall become but shadow-gods of a forgotten past. "My name ye’ve stricken from the roll of priestesses of the All-Mother; no writ- ing shall be graven on my tomb or coffin, and I shall be forgotten for all time by men and gods. So reads your dreadful judgment. "Ye hoary-headed fools, I hurl the lie into your teeth! Upon a day in the far future men from a strange land shall delve into the tomb where ye have laid me and take forth my body from it, nor shall your spite and hatred stop them till they’ve looked upon my face and seen my broken bones and heard the story of my love for the Hebrew who for my sake abjured his God and became a shaven-headed servant of the great All-Mother. I swear that I shall tell the story of my love and death, and in another age and land strange men shall hear my name and weep for me — but your names they shall never know. "Ye think to cast me to oblivion? I tell ye I shall triumph in the end, and it is ye Who shall be utterly forgotten, nameless as the sands the wind pursues across the desert. "Pile now your stones of doom upon my heart and still its fevered beating. To death I go, but not from out the memory of men as ye shall. I have spoken.” The girl’s voice ended on a weary little sob, and de Grandin’s shout of spiteful laughter slashed the silence as a sword might slash through flesh. "And hast thou heard, thou animal-faced fools?” he asked. "Who prophesied the truth, and who was caught in the web of his own conceit, old monkey-faces? Take now your pale and breathless shades back to that shadow-land from whence they came. Ye tried your evil best to keep her from revealing her story, and ye have failed. Go — go quickly to oblivion. In nomine Dei, I bid ye begone now and henceforth!” He took a step toward the half -circle of masked forms, and they gave ground before him. Another step, and they fell back an- other pace. They were wavering now, be- coming less substantial, more shadowy; as he raised his hands and took a third step toward them they seemed merely nebulous gray vapor swirling and eddying in the light draft from the open fireplace where the logs blazed, and — suddenly they were gone. " Fini — triom phe — acheve — parfait!” de Grandin drew a silk handkerchief from his cuff and wiped his brow. "Ye were strong and hateful, Messieurs les Revenants, but Jules de Grandin he is strong, too, and when it comes to hating — morbleu, who knows his power better than you?” WHAT was that stuff you sprinkled on the floor of Taylor’s recreation room before we began tonight, and why did it hold back those dreadful shadowy forms while Vella spoke?” I asked him as we drove homeward. He broke off the tune he 'hummed with a laugh. “It was pigeons’ blood, my friend. I got it from the marchand de volatile this afternoon. As to why it held them back, tnorbleau, I am as much at sea as you. It is one of those things we know without understanding. “You know, by example, that in all an- cient religions the priest was wont to purify the altars with the blood of the sacrifices . — of the goats, lambs, doves or bullocks offered to the god?” “Yes, I’ve heard that.” "And for why? Not that the blood is cleansing. Mais non. Blood is simply liquid tissue, and very messy stuff indeed. Why, then? Because, my friend” — he tapped me solemnly upon the knee, — "the blood con- tained some secret, potent power to hold the god in check. He could not pass beyond a circle traced in it. That kept1 him in his place and kept him in control as one might say. He could not swoop down on the con- gregation past that barrier of sacrificial blood, as long as that stood between him and them they were safe from his wrath or spite or his capricious wish to do them hurt and injury. Yes. Of course. Very good. The priests of Isis wet her altars with the blood of doves. I secured a similar sub- stance and with it traced a pentacle about us; the votaries of Isis, like their mistress, could not pass by that barrier; within it we were safe. And then, pardieu, when Made- moiselle Vella had delivered Nefra-Kem- mah’s message to us — shown those olden ones their cruel and wicked judgment had

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LORDS OF THE GHOSTLANDS been set at naught — then, morbleu, they were completely undone. They had not strength nor spirit to oppose me when I ordered them to begone. Parbleu, I literally laughed them out of existence!” He drummed gloved fingers on the silver knob of his short military cane: Sucre de nom, Ron, ton, ron. La vie est breve, La nuit est longue — ” 23 he hummed. "Make haste, Friend Trow- bridge.” "Why, what’s the hurry?” "It is dry work, this battling with those olden dusty ones, and just before we left for Monsieur Taylor’s I saw a man put a bottle of champagne in the frigidaire.” “A man put champagne in our frigid- aire?” I echoed. "Who — ” C est mot- — I am the man, my friend, and mart d’un rat mort, how I do thirst!” ■Skape of- Olirii$5 to Come THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF! A great new horror novelette by Robert Bloch “The Shining Land” by Edmond Hamilton ii!inni§!Uii£ Stay Harold f¥L W. Bradbury Lawior Wellman ^imsgggsgEiismmmgmmss! WEIRD TALES ■iii!im!i!mu!iisiiiiHiim!i; j§ I FOR MAY I nSEIUSiII9iElSISi!!S!SS!liSniHIIIIHSE ©gjf f^jf§§,©§| FlfSt bdmEHtllEHiiiUilMHiUiiSEUHui

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By H. BEDFORD' J ONES JASPER CGNKLING is not a queer fel- low at all. He is head of Conlding & Strauss, importers, a pretty keen busi- ness man, and like most men who have at- tained sixty or so, knows a good deal that he doesn’t broadcast. As his lawyer and fairly intimate friend, I was aware that he had a certain leaning Heading fey A. toward the occult and that was all. Prob- ably he took me for a hard-headed un- believer. He was right about that. I am. When he broke this story to me, I thought at first he had gone off his nut. "What would you say,” he began, "if I told you that my office safe contained a link R. TILBURNE

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25 IN THE BEGINNING with the philosophers, magicians and sooth- sayers of past ages?" “It’s entirely possible," I rejoined. He fingered his white goatee and mustache, smiled slightly, and his brilliant, piercing eyes twinkled at me. "But if I went further and said that this link was articulate and could relate its history and experience in such a manner that these could be made into coherent stories?” "I’d say your agile mind was slipping,” I replied, "or else that some drugstore spook- chaser had you under his thumb, which amounts to the same thing.” He chuckled. "My boy. I’m going to sur- prise you. I’m telling you cold facts. Also, they will be supported, or at least credited, by the thousands of people who today are in more or less constant communication with the other world.” I relaxed. "Bosh! Jasper Conkling, have you become converted at your age to the inane mouthings and doubletalk of spirit mediums and street-corner charlatans?" "You misapprehend,’’ said he, with a quiet earnestness that was impressive. "I grant you that professional mediums, spirit- ists and so on are the bunk. I’ll go farther and say that anyone, anyone, who exploits the occult for gain of any sort, is a rascal. If he had some occult power in the first place, as many have had, and used it to these ends, it was withdrawn from him. That is the first law of the supernatural.” "What the devil do you know about the supernaural?” I demanded. He chuckled. He chuckled again. "More than you’d imagine. On the other hand, there are countless people today, and always have been, who do possess occult knowledge or powers, unsuspected by any around them. They keep their mouths shut, wisely, about it. They have no dealings with the false prophets who chase the dimes and dollars of the credulous.” “What do you mean? Can you rattle off some incantation and call up a ghost?” "My boy. I’m speaking of plain, common- sense, practical things, like the brass cup now in my office safe. I can give you the notes of its memoirs, if I may so term them.” “A cup?” I echoed. "Did you say a cup?” “I said a cup. A brass cup.” His shrewrd blue eyes were twinkling again. "Later, if you’re interested. I can show you this object at work — though I cannot yet explain its workings. I hope to do so later. If you’d care to take the notes I have regarding its origin and expand them into suitable form, you may do so.” "Very well,” I said, to humor him. As a client, his account was worth a large sum annually, and I was not fool enough to chuck it up. "But mind you,” he added gravely, "while perhaps these memoirs cannot be substan- tiated, the existence of this cup is a historical fact, as far bade as the sixth century AD at the very least. Here are the notes; you weave them _ into a yarn as you like.” I took the bulky envelope of typed pages he thrust at me, and when I got home laid them aside and, for a few days, forgot them. Jasper Conkling’s talk of plain, practical things rather tarnished the gloss of illusion; had he declared this to be arrant black magic, curiosity would have tempted me to jump into it. But the moment came when I opened the envelope and delved into the typed pages, and from the very first sentence, the lure took hold of me. "It is gainful knowledge to make dead men speak the truth.” Curious, almost sinister words! IF THAT cup spoke the truth — and I say "spoke” advisedly — what a strange link it made with Greek and Roman fumblings at the occult, with Gothic and Saracen necro- mance, with wizardry of old France and Ger- many! The pages to hand dealt only with its origin. This was two thousand years ago, in the day when the sage Apollonius lived in Tyana and was world-famed as the master of all wisdom, and beneath the shady old fig-tree by the harbor mouth sat deep-eyed Cleon, architect of the new temple being built in honor of the earth-mother. A pleas- ant man, Cleon, an athlete until a falling block of marble crushed one foot in youth; now he limped, walking with a stick, and the Greeks who worshipped beauty turned their eyes from him, and the woman whom he loved was forced to see him no more. Helen was her name, and Agias her father was president of the city council and a merchant whose ships traded to lands afar. If she could not see Cleon, at least she could and did go to Apollonius, the master of healing, who was called a wizard because

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26 WEIRD TALES in his search for medicinal art, then thought to be magical, he had traveled over the known world and had pierced the secret mysteries of all people. He was the only Greek, other than Plato, to have passed the veil of Isis and gained the secrets of the Egyptian masters, and now he was an old, old man who healed without fee and loved all men, and was loved by them. Helen came to him and clasped him about the knees, after the manner of .a Greek sup- pliant, and broke into tears. She was a slim golden creature, too slim for beauty — the Greeks liked ’em plump — but she had a way with her. When they called her Helen, which meant "taker,” they were right. “Help him, Apollonius!” she begged. "Cleon is your friend; help him! They’re plotting against him — my father, and that rascal Thyrax who hopes to marry me, and Captain Hiram, the Sidonian shipmaster who .serves my father.” "What are they plotting?” demanded the sage, blinking at her. "I don’t know. I can’t find out; but they mean to have his life. Thyrax hates him because I love him. My father hates him because he limps, and is not wealthy, and loves me. Captain Hiram is a hard, evil man who hates everything and everyone.” "Is that the master whose big galley is just back from Alexandria, and lies un- loaded at your father’s wharves?” "Yes, yes. Oh, you must help Cleon! No one else can help him. You can do anything, and you are his friend.” "But I cannot heal his injured leg, child,” said Apollonius sadly. "Many things I can- not do. Wisdom can help itself, but can rarely help others. Still, Cleon is a brave fel- low and has a heart of gold, and is beloved by the gods. I’ll see what I can do.” She rose, all tears and laughter, and Sung her arms around him in joyous gratitude. Apollonius kissed her cheek, not without a sigh, and patted her shoulder,. "There was a time — ” he said, and checked himself. "Why, child, these arms of yours are muscled like steel!” he ex- claimed in surprise. "You make me afraid.” “Ox what?” she asked, smiling. "The future,” he answered darkly. His wisdom had many secrets. Now he would say no more, but put her from him and bade her return home and trust to him. But it was too late; the hour had already struck. Even -while they talked here, the heavy-browed Agias and two other elders of the council had been visiting the temple con- struction, Cleon received them hospitably, gave them seats in the shade of the wide fig-tree, and discussed his plans with them. He was sur- prised by the friendliness of Agias; instead of his usual hostility, the merchant showed confidence and warm approval of the work, complimenting him highly. "I would like your opinion on something,” Agias said to him. "One of my ships, as you know, has just arrived from Egypt — she’s not yet unloaded. Well, Cap’n Hiram had a chance to pick up several pillars from the temple of Demeter at Tanis; that’s the Greek colony near Alexandria, you know — a very ancient city.” "Oh!” exclaimed one of the councillors. "He brought them for our temple of Demeter here, did he?” Agias laughed. "That was his idea; but can they be used?” He’s due at my house now with his reports. Why not come along, everybody? And you, Cleon. I don’t know whether you can use those pillars here; if you can, I’ll contribute them gratis to the work. And, by the way, he brought some excellent wine of Cyprus. I’d like you to try it.” NO ONE had to be asked twice, and the party set off at once for the pleasant villa of Agias in the upper town. On the way, Thyrax met and joined them, so that they made a round half-dozen in all. Cleon was a trifle suspicious of the merchant’s sudden cordiality, and was well aware of the feelings of Thyrax — he re- ciprocated them fully, having no love for this coldly scheming man who aspired to Helen’s love. Praise of his work had dulled the sharp edge of caution, however, and when Captain Hiram joined the party and spoke with admiration of his architectural skill, Cleon quite warmed to the dark Si- donian. Also, A.gias brought out a precious silver goblet from Crete, and insisted on toasting the architect of the new temple, which was a pleasant honor. That Cyprian wine was rich and heady, and the slaves kept the cups filled, and by the time they got around to discussing those

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IN THE BEGINNING 27 pillars, Cleon had put away more than he . realized. Captain Hiram’s warm praises were pleasant in his ears, too. "There are four of the pillars,” said the captain after another drink. "Not large, and instead of being plain they are exquisitely sculptured. They have neither capitals nor bases — just the marble pillars. They are said to have been brought from Greece long ago, and to have been carved by Pheidias him- self.” "But they’re Egyptian, all the same,” spoke out Thyrax. The Sidonian assented. "Yes, of course.” "And it’s quite impossible to use Egyptian pillars in a Greek temple. It can’t be done,” asserted Thyrax positively. "The proportion and shape — "Why, that’s nonsense,” broke in Agias. "I never heard of such a thing! What do you say, Cleon? You’re an architect.” It was too good a chance to set Thyrax back on his heels. Cleon jumped at it. "How high are they?” he asked. "About eighteen feet,” Captain Hiram replied. "But damned heavy.” "You set ’em down at my temple con- struction, and I’ll put ’em up in a week,” he said confidently. "I have the exact place for them — to hold up the cornice on the east front. No other pillars there, so they won’t have to match anything else — ■” "You’ll ruin the whole work!” exclaimed Thyrax vehemently. "You’ll spoil the entire temple and make the city ridiculous! I tell you it can’t be done!” A violent argument burst forth, consider- ably heated by the Cyprian wine. The city councillors were in alarm lest the temple be ruined; Cleon was overjoyed to have Agias on his side against Thyrax, and stuck to his contention. Captain Hiram could give no description of the columns, except that they were marvelously carved. Cleon tried to keep his head, but came close to blows with Thyrax, who finally threw a heavy purse on the table. "Five hundred pieces of gold says it can’t be done — and the city council to be the judges!” said he furiously. "That’s a fortune,” rejoined Cleon. "I’ve nothing to match it — ” "You have brains,” Thyrax countered mockingly. "What! The famous architect can’t support his own notions? You do well to be afraid, you rascally upstart!” "That’s the price of a first-class slave,” said Captain Hiram, laughing. "Match it with yourself, Cleon! Wager your freedom against the purse!” This, eventually, was just what Cleon did. Infuriated by Thyrax, his judgment ruined by the wine, he cast prudence to the winds, A scribe was called. The wager was duly written out and witnessed by all present. The columns were to be so placed as to be approved by the council and the citizens; failing which, Cleon was to be sold as a slave and the money handed over to Thyrax. Success meant that the purse of gold would go to him. The time element wras extended to a month, however. Captain Idiram promised to deliver the four columns on the morrow. NEWS of the wager spread like wildfire. While the city was ruled by the council, every citizen had a voice, and civic pride ran high; council and citizens were to be the judges, and a good thing too. There would be no spoiling the looks of this temple to please an architect’s whim. The average citizen was a pretty good judge of art, as well. Yet the very thought of incorporating in this temple four pillars from the famous old city in the Nile delta, and said to have been carved by the hand of Pheidias himself, hundreds of years ago, was inspiring. Public sentiment was fairly balanced. No one cared a hang whether the wager -were won or lost; all that mattered was the temple, but this ' mattered vitally, because heavy taxes had been levied to pay for it. The excitement began to rise daily. Apollonius, who had been called over to Samos to help combat an outbreak of plague there, came back home to find a despairing note from Helen asking why he had not in- tervened. He read it, heard the news from his slaves, and shook his head. Donning a clean white chlamys with scarlet border — he was not above a trifle of vanity in his old age — he took staff in hand and stumped downtown, his white hairs and venerable beard blowing in the breeze. As usual, quite a crowd tagged after him, for he was easily the most famous man in the city, and whenever he went abroad peo-

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28 WEIRD TALES pie thronged around begging for charms or miraculous cures or bits of wisdom. But today he sent them all packing, and made his way to the new temple, where Cleon’s table was set beneath the shady fig- tree. The table was heaped with sketches and writing materials, and Cleon sat staring at nothing. He jumped up as the sage ap- proached. "Pardon, master— I did not see you com- ing. Here, take my stool.” "You look like a stricken man, my friend.” "So am I, by my own folly,” said Cleon. 'Tm a fool!” "No; you walked into a trap,” rejoined Apollonius. “I know about the wager; 1 tried to warn you, but it was too late. Tell me the rest.” Cleon walked over to one of the four columns, laid nearby and covered with can- vas. He laid one of them bare. It was a beautiful shaft of marble, barely six inches thick at the bottom, rising and swelling until, halfway up, it became the figure of the goddess Demeter, whose uplifted arms were ready to support a cornice above. “Look at it!” he said bitterly. “The others are similar- — tiny shafts at the base, widening into full figures above.” "I see nothing wrong with it,” said Apol- lonius. "Indeed, it seems exquisite. Of course, I am no architect. I can discourse of medicine, of healing herbs, or philoso- phy and the wisdom of the gods. I deal with the clouds, not with stones.” 'Tve been working over it for days, all in vain,” said Cleon gloomily. "A pillar or column cannot rest upon so tiny a base — there must be a pedestal of some sort. It looks like a bottle upside down. Here, glance at these sketches — I’ve tried in every conceivable way to make the things look proper. It is impossible. No one knows how they were placed in that temple in Egypt. . . He raked over his countless sketches, making the point clear. He had sketched bases of every imaginable kind for those four columns, and in every case they looked grotesque. Apollonius suggested inverting them; this was all very well, except that the figures would then be standing on their heads. For an hour, the matter was argued ©n every side. . Apollonius told of how Helen had begged his aid; but now, as he said frankly, he was powerless to give any. The' ingenuity of the trap was deadly. There was no escape from it. No possible way appeared in which those pillars, with their spindly narrowing bases, could be placed. "And yet,” said Apollonius thoughtfully, "Pheidias placed them and made them, and he was the greatest sculptor and artist of the ages!” “Then let him tell us how,” said Cleon, with a despairing laugh. "I’m done. So far as I can see, the thing’s impossible. I’ll become a slave for life, and serves me right for being a fool.” The old man started slightly, at those words. “My son, Pheidias might indeed tell us,” he said gravely. "There is a way.” "I’m not jesting,” snapped Cleon. “Nor am I. I have never used this way, this means, to talk with the dead; yet it is . gainful knowledge to make dead men speck the truth! I heard from the priests in Egypt of the method. If you like, we may try it. But first I must warn you.” Cleon, startled, regarded him with com- prehension. "Do you speak of magic?” “So it is called; whenever people do not understand a thing, they call it magic. Yet I must warn you,” went on Apollonius ear- nestly. “A penalty is attached to the use of this method to serve personal ends, as in this case.” "Anything’s better than slavery,” said Cleon. “Even death. I’m not afraid of death; but I dread slavery.” "Death, to the uninformed, is always a heavy thing, but the wise man smiles at it,” said the sage. “Have you any knowledge of graving in metals?” "Every architect must have such knowl- edge,” said Cleon. "Very well. Search in the shops for a cup of brass, good solid brass. It must be a span across the top, and at least a span deep.” “Easily found,” said Cleon promptly. "Ah, but you must work upon it! Inside this cup, a third of the -way down from the rim, you must engrave the letters of the alphabet, so that they run clear around the

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IN THE BEGINNING 29 cup. And to one outer edge of the rim, at- tach a small brass ring. That is all. Do this, bring it to my house tomorrow evening, and I shall furnish the rest." "Master,” said Cleon, wide-eyed, "surely you do not deal in sorcery?” "You fool, haven’t I more sense, at my age?” barked the philosopher. "I must see Agias now and arrange to have Helen come to my house also; she must take part in this work. Sorcery, magic, mumbo-jumbo, wiz- ardry— call it what you like. You have an educated brain and should know better. I suppose you think I can mumble some in- cantation and pluck a demon out of the air! Well, perhaps I could. At least, it can be done.. But how am I to explain natural laws to idiots? This is merely natural causa- tion. . . Snorting in his beard, he seized his staff and stumped away, still growling. Cleon stared after him, then broke into a laugh. "Magic or not, what’s the difference?” he said. "He’s lending his help, which is the main thing. Talk with the dead, indeed! I’d talk with the gods themselves or the Lord of Hades if it would get me out of this trap!” Just the same, it was a trifle startling to talk in that matter-of-fact -way about speak- ing, with the dead. What to Apollonious was pure matter-of-fact, to others was apt to be somewhat hair-raising. Little Cleon cared; his faith in the sage was absolute. And the prospect of seeing Helen was heartening. He had not ex- changed a word with her for weeks past, so strictly did Agias keep her guarded by slaves. So he went to work at his assigned task hopefully. It was not difficult to obtain such a cup as was desired; he got a handsome, heavy cup that stood solidly on three feet, made fast the ring as ordered, and set to work on the alphabet. This required nicety of crafts- manship, and was not finished until sunset of the following day. THE daylight died, the stars came forth. The cup wrapped and under his arm, Cleon made his way to the house of Apol- lonius, going to the rear entrance. A slave admitted him and led him to the private apartment of the sage, through rooms whose walls held cases of manuscripts. The house had been decorated by a Cretan artist, and everywhere were seen the strange painted sea-monsters such as ranged in the palace of King Minos at Crete. In the inmost chamber, an austere room lighted by a tall bronze Etruscan lamp, was waiting Helen. She started up as Cleon en- tered; he set down the cup and folded her in his arms — a meeting of silent, tense emo- tion too deep for words. "Where is Apollonius?” he asked at length. "With my father — oh, yes, he insisted on coming. Apollonius will manage him. I’m supposed to be quite ill.” She laughed a little and drew back. "Cleon! Is it ail true, what Apollonius told me? Yes, of course it is — and yet, so strange, so incredible! But here he comes — I hear his staff — ” The sage himself strode into the room and greeted Cleon with a growl. "Well! Agias is safe for the present. Let’s see that cup.” He unwrapped the brazen cup and inspected it. "Well enough. Sit down, you two, at the table under the lamp. Now don’t pester me with questions. Obey me, and fear nothing.” The table-top was empty. A jar of water stood nearby, and taking it, Apollonius filled the cup partly full, until the water was nearly up to the graven letters. He set the cup carefully on the table, then pro- duced a cord and a short rod of brass. The base of this rod he fitted into the ring on the lip of the cup, which held the rod upright. The top was bent over in a curve and was fitted with a ring, through which he slipped one end of the cord. This was a heavy three-fold cord of silk. He drew it through to the end, which was fastened to a light brazen circlet or ring. Thus, the cord with its ring was suspended directly over the cup. He lowered the ring until it was inside the cup and almost touching the water, then seated himself. "Now,” he said, separating the loose ends of the cord into three parts, "each of you hold, with me, one of these strands. Cleon, have you writing materials?” Cleon produced a wax tablet and stylus, and laid them ready. "No talk,” went on Apollonius gravely. "Fasten your eyes and thoughts on the ring

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30 WEIRD TALES hanging inside the cup. I’ll do any talking that’s necessary.” To Cleon, the whole performance looked silly. He did not know what to expect; and assuredly there was no necromance at work. The light was bright; the gods were not invoked; there were no incantations or other indicia of wizardry. He was rather disappointed, and it was hard to fasten his mind upon that brass ring, with Helen so close. His foot found hers beneath the table, and her blue eyes danced at him. The silence became heavily oppressive. Nothing happened. Apollonius sat gravely intent, his massive features like rock. Cleon shifted position restlessly, until Helen’s foot touched his, and her smile warmed his heart, and he quite forgot what he was here for. He knew from her words that Apollonius had talked with her regarding this work and no doubt had extended his vague warnings. He stiffened suddenly as her face blanched. Following her startled gaze, he looked at the ring inside the cup. It was moving. The cord on which it hung was swinging. His eyes darted to their three hands, holding the three strands of the cord; not so much as a finger was twitching, and only a decided pull could have moved the cord — but the ring was swinging, swinging, circling ever wider and under. . . . "Ting!” With gentle tinkle, it struck the side of the cup. "Write down the letter it touched,” said Apollonius. Cleon obeyed. The cord was spinning again, the brass ring was again in motion; it touched another letter, and continued its course. How did it move and why? There was none to answer. There was nothing to explain. "Very curious,” said Apollonius mus- ingly. "I never played with this toy before. How the Egyptian priests could have used it, I cannot say, with the abundance of char- acters in their hieratic script. We have only twenty-four letters in Greek, yet they have barely enough space on that cup. . . . Cleon! What is written? What is the word?” The cord had ceased its motion, the brass ring spun a little and hung quiet. Cleon looked at his tablets. "Ask!” he said, impressed in spite of himself. "Just the one word — ask!” "Very well,” said the sage. "First, with whom are we speaking?” Gradually the cord picked up motion, the ring sv/ung, and began to strike the side of the bowl. Helen was watching, wide-eyed, startled, as those letters were touched. All three were spelling the words as they came — no need of the tablets now. "The guard!” said Apollonius. "Very well, guard. We wish to speak with Phei- dias the sculptor or with one of his master- workmen. Can he speak with us?” Almost at once the cord moved, the ring swung. Came only one word: "Wait.” THEY relaxed, stealing glances one at an- other. Apollonius smiled grimly as Cleon bent dark brows upon him in unut- tered questions. "Ask me not,” he said. "Even to a Magus, a seer who knows all the mysteries, there are things too simple to be explained.” "You did not pull the cord,” said Helen, wondering. "I watched. Nor did I. Nor Cleon. Who did, then?” "Perhaps all three,” said the sage quietly. "What does it matter, if answers come to what we ask? In the other world is no time or space, as we know them. Now take down the letters as they come, Cleon, for we shall need to refer to your tablets later. What is said will not be repeated. . . . With whom are we talking?” The ring was swinging, gathering mo- mentum, and this time it began to strike the cup more rapidly, with greater force. Came the answer: "Pheidias is here.” "We ask information,” Apollonius said, as though to some other person before them. "In the name of the gods! Four pillars have been brought here from Tanis, to be erected, and yet — ” He broke off, as the ring swept into mo- tion and interrupted him. Cleon sought in vain to pierce the mystery of this motion. That he was not causing it, he well knew. Nor was Helen, for she did not know how to write. Yet words came, and came fast. Apollonius, then? Those strong, beautiful old fingers were absolutely quiet; there could be no trickery here. "I know,’ ’ came the words on the tablets of wax. "I understand your problem. The answer is simple indeed. Each column needs

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IN THE BEGINNING' 31 a pedestal in the form of a lotus-blossom, the petals rising to a height of four feet, the column rising from tire center. Try it, Cleon. Make the sketch now, while I wait.” The ring fell motionless. For the first time, Cleon felt a tingle of awe, of terror — drowned in a great wave of comprehension. Of course, of course! Feverishly he sketched an outspread lotus bud, half open, with the pillar rising from it — the lower tapering base concealed by the petals. The result was perfect. “Magnificent!” he cried. "Look! It is the solution!” The ring moved, the words came in re- ply. "Not quite. One petal too many.” , "We thank you, Pheidias,” said Apollo- nius. A light perspiration bedewed his wide brow. "We thank you humbly for coming.” For the last time, the ring moved and struck. "All effort is progress. You have ac- complished a thing, but whether for good or ill I know not. We are only men like you; death is but stepping through a door. Fare- well.” The ring spun idly and fell into rest. There was a dull sound, as Helen fell half across the table, senseless. Cleon sprang to her side. "Leave her be; she is not harmed,” said Apollonius, wiping the sweat from his face. "It is only loss of energy. Well, you have your answer! Here, let me have charge of her. You have your own work. Go to it at once; time enough for love when success is won.” With sudden, unexpected show of strength, Apollonius lifted Helen in his arms and bore her from the room, calling his slaves. Cleon hesitated. He snatched up his wax tablets and pouched them. Impulsively, he wrapped up the cup again, and with it the rod and cord and ring, and departed. He had implicit confidence that Helen was safe enough, since the sage so declared. As a matter of fact, he took the apparatus with him in order to examine it more closely for some sign of trickery. He could not believe what had happened. The wonder of it stupefied him. Yet, working far into the night, sketch- ing each of the four columns with a pedestal proportioned to receive it, he knew that the information given him was most exact. Be- fore sunrise, he had drafted the pedestals, to be made in sections; every bit of his paper work was completed. An hour later he and a dozen stonecutters and apprentice sculptors were at work. The brass cup was laid away and, temporarily, forgotten. TWO days later, he informed the council that the pillars would be unveiled for inspection at the end of a week. Fie worked day and night, toiling like any slave, at the task, hidden behind great canvas curtains which let no one observe what was going on. In the midst of this, he learned of the grief that had smitten the whole city — Apollonius, the Magus, the sage wise man famous throughout the whole world, was stricken and dying. Cleon rushed to his house, to find that Apollonius had passed away. Now he flung himself even more furi- ously into the work. Three columns were up, the fourth was ready to be swung into place; on the morrow was to be the unveil- ing. Night came, and with a slave-gang Cleon labored until the fourth column was in place. The work ceased. Cleon bathed, and flung himself down on a pallet behind the canvas curtain. He slept, and dreamed of clashing weapons, and in his dream the wraith of old Apollonius came and looked sadly upon him, and passed on, silent. Fie wakened suddenly. Someone was be- side him; it was Helen. "Up, up!” she was crying, tugging at him to waken him. "Quickly — there is no time!” Bewildered, he sprang up. In the star- light she stood with sword in hand and shield on arm; he thought her a goddess at first. "I have weapons — acre is a sword for you, here another shield,” she panted out. "I brought them from my father’s house — quickly! They are coming— Thyrax and Captain Hiram and some of my father's slaves — one of your workmen talked, said that your work was done and would cer- tainly win approval — they are coming to kill you — no time to escape — ” She was gasping for breath. Already the shuffling of sandaled feet echoed from the stones. Cleon leaped forth from behind the

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32 WEIRD TALES canvas wall, and a yell greeted him; they were already rushing forward, there was not an instant to spare, Helen moved out beside him, and the stabbing, shouting killers closed in. The steel swung and clashed; man after man fell away, hurt or maimed or dead, as the swords struck home — but before the noise of the tumult roused the town, the work was done. A spear struck Cleon down, and that was his death-wound. None knew Helen to be a woman, none knew her for what she was — and she, too, fell, her arms reaching for him in death. They lay thus together when the guards arrived and the slayers fled. And they ■were buried thus together, in a tomb near the wondrous columns which made the city famous and caused men to come from afar to behold the temple and its pillars, like no others in the world hereto- fore. And when they were laid to rest, the cup in its wrappings was laid with them, for no one knew what it was and yet all guessed it to be some treasure of the dead architect. This was the story that came from the notes, and Jasper Conkling nodded with de- light as he read over the pages I handed him. It was not a happy story, and I said so. "Bosh!” said Jasper Conkling. "Truth is seldom happy. You call the story unhappy, because the actors die. Well, doesn’t every- body die?” I let it pass to save argument. "How- ever,” I said,- "this mentions the Greek al- phabet as having twenty-four letters. 1 al- ways understood it had twenty-six.” He got a book and looked it up. Very early Greek had sixteen; Greek of the period in the story, twenty-four. Later Greek, here and there, had twenty-seven. “Anything else?” jasper Conkling asked, with disagreeable triumph. "Yes. Do you claim that these notes were supplied in the same manner used in the story — the dangling ring, and so forth?” "Certainly,” he rejoined. "And the other notes also — those dealing with the entire history of the cup, down to the time of Albertus Magnus.” "Then kindly explain the trick.” He regarded me gravely. "You have turned this first batch of notes into a story. You have here the words of Apollonius himself. Are they not sufficient?” "No.” He shrugged. "Then, my friend, you must wait. You shall see the thing at work, you shall judge for yourself. Meantime, take with you the second chapter of these memoirs, which deal with the days of the Emperor Valens, and the references to his- torical works which actually mention the cup, and weave the next story in the chain. Will that be satisfactory?” It was not, but for the moment it had to be. Bewitched By WILLARD N. MARSH THIS timeless garden, like a thing diseased Has flung a green veil round And deathless evil blooms are tightly squeezed Within the unkempt vine’s obscene embrace. its leprous face In other days this setting must have heard The cloven hoofs of Pan, and as he spun The witching harmonies that lured the bird From flight, its growing for a time was done. now the whisper of a magic pipe filtered through to me from yesterday: ancient, half -forgotten dream is ripe — caught, I grope and cannot find the way.

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Birthday Present for Tommy By CHARLES KING no parents, no home, not really; such a strange little girl. Aren’t you curious. . . . ? I AM a little girl. People say that I am small, even for my age. Sometimes when I walk in the park nearby to my house, well-meaning strangers will ask me if I am not afraid to be alone. I always an- swer "No,” and it is the truth. Maybe it isn’t the complete truth because I am sometimes afraid at night. That is, un- less I have company. Tlive by myself and the house does get kind of scary without company. I like company very much. , . . "Hello, little girl.” "How do you do, sir.” "Dear me. But you are a polite little 1 girl. ...” "Thank you, sir.” "How old are you, my dear?” "How old do I look, sir?” "Ha! Ha! Bears out my contention that a woman’s a coquette no matter what her age. To please you, child, I’d say you were abont twelve. And very pretty.” I made believe that I saw a friend of mine and went away. It is always about this time; Heading fey BORIS DOLGOV 33

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34 WEIRD TALES that they start talking about my parents. That makes me very uneasy because I have no parents. And I just know that if I told that to a grownup there would be trouble. There would be more questions. And if they ever found out that I live alone . . . well, I just know they would take me away from my house. I would not like that. It does scare me when I am alone, but some- times I have company. And that is nice. I remember Tommy. He was very nice. I will tell you about him. . . , IT WAS about a month ago. I think it was, a month. Time is funny. It is not al- ways easy to remember. I was walking along one of my favorite paths in the park. On a sunny day you can always find children there. It is fun to play with them. I can forget so many, many things when I play with them. But, even at ■my happiest, it is always saddening to know that I will see some of them for so very short a time. Even so, I must not depress myself. I promised to tell about Tommy, and I will. A ball came rolling along the walk. . . . "Here is your ball, little boy. . . "Hull. I’m not so little!” "I’m sorry, I guess you’re a pretty big boy.” "Sure, I am. And I’m strong, too.” "You must be. You threw that ball very far.” "I bet that girls can’t throw like that.” "No ... we can’t. We learn different things. ...” "What kind of things?” This would have been a very hard ques- tion to answer. There are many things you can tell little boys; there are so many things that one cannot. I have known many of them . . . very many . . . and yet each one thinks a little bit differently. That is where • (he danger lies. One cannot give the wrong answer because then they never trust you again. And yet one must have company. It is all quite tiring . . . and confusing. . . . I was wondering just how to answer Tommy, when his governess ran up. She seemed most worried. And then she saw us together. She smiled, I suppose in relief, and then grew quite angry. "Tommy! You are a bad, bad boy!” "Why?” "Because you ran away and I didn’t see you.” "But I only was chasing my ball. . . "Don’t you know that there are bad peo- ple who steal little boys?” "B-but I was only . . .” "That will be enough, Tommy. On top of making me worry myself sick, you give me silly excuses. Little boys should always tell the truth.” "I am not little! I am almost seven years old, and ...” "... and you are being very nasty to me. You . . . you are making me very un- happy. ...” You must agree that grownups are pecu- liar. Tommy’s governess was worried about him. She said so. But when she found him she became angry. This has always been a grownup sort of reaction that has been very hard to understand ... for a long, long time. . . . Do you see what I mean? "Who is this little girl?” "She gave me back my ball.” "That was very kind of you, my dear.” "Thank you. I like to do nice things for other people . . . like Tommy.” "Oh, you know his name?” "Not till now. You just mentioned it.” "What is your name?” WAS a simple enough question. And yet, sometimes the simplest of questions are the hardest to answer. Haven’t you found it so? Things that are hard you can somehow fight through, but, unless some- thing warns you, it is the simple word that causes the most worry; makes you press your hands against your ears and pretend that you never heard the question. Bless little Tommy. He spoke up bravely as he could: "She is my friend!” "Of course, she is, Tommy. Let’s all go back together and have her meet the rest of the children.” I was a bit worried. There were bound to be grownups as well as children, and grown- ups always get around to asking one’s age. And though I have been answering that question for a long, long time, I am always thinking that some day I will be called a liar . . . and that somebody will start to in-

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35 , A BIRTHDAY PRESENT FOR TOMMY vestlgate. The truth? Oh, no. I could never tell that. There were little babies in carriages, and that also worried me. Babies are always frightened when they see me. Even those very new ones, that cannot see as yet, thrash their little limbs about when I am near. Sometimes they go into convulsions. Maybe it is because they have come only recently. Perhaps, in the world they left, they had much knowledge; and they haven’t been in this world long enough to forget everything. They are dangerous. . . . I left quickly, as soon as the first baby began to wail. But i promised Tommy I would play with him tomorrow. AS I walked up the steps to my house I began to feel afraid. It is hard for me to describe this fear. It isn’t just what grownups call an emotion. It is ... it is .. . like something solid. I can feel this fear. I always have. I kept hoping that, this time, they would let me alone. It was no use. As I walked into the house they all started talking at once. "Where is our food?” "You know we are hungry!” "We haven’t eaten in weeks!” I was frightened. I always am because they have so much power. I tried not to look at them as I answered: “It is very dangerous to feed you so often. The last time I nearly got caught.” They began again — but not talking this time. It was much more horrible. I will call it "laughing”, even though it didn’t sound at all like any of the different kinds of laughter you have ever heard. They do not know what laughter means. In fact, they have no idea of most of your emotions. They once knew, of course, but that was a long time ago. Now they just regard others as being useful. Like myself. "Behold! The Little One is frightened.” "She is always frightened.” "I am hungry!” One of them uncoiled from the high chandelier and dropped to the floor. The floor was uncarpeted but the great body made no sound. I have seen this happen thousands of times but I never get used to it. I closed my eyes; but had to open them at once. They can make me do anything. The scaly, three-cornered head was swaying close to mine. Some of the eyes on the ends of the wobly tentacles were closed; but enough of them remained open, blinking at me. Enough, I mean, to keep me from moving. "What are you afraid of, Little One?” "Of people finding out about . . . about me.” "Ah! You almost expressed fear that people would find out about us!” FROM behind a picture hanging crook- edly on the wall, a lot of thick, grayish liquid dripped down to the floor. It shiv- ered a little bit and then changed into a hairy, ropy, horrible thing. It scuttled soundlessly across the floor and joined us. I tried not to look at it. I kept silent while they talked. "Is the Little One becoming dangerous?” "No. She cannot. You know that.” "We built her so long ago that sometimes I forget.” "We built her well — for our purpose.” "But have we blocked ourselves by our own cleverness? The Little One is a weal: vessel at times.” "That is because we made her so. If she is to mingle with humans then she must ap- pear to them as such. She must share their weaknesses.” I tried not to listen. They had talked this way many, many times. My eyes kept slid- ing to a pile of dirt in the corner. I should be used to it, by now; but my heart jumped with fright as a huge, red ' eye, dragging some disgusting threads of flesh, suddenly rolled out of the dirt. It joined the others. I could get used to the way they constantly change their shapes; it is just that they are so quiet. Even with a whole roomful of them talk- ing at once, their voices cannot be heard by anyone but me. That is the truth. And now the three of them were speaking in their soundless voices. "It is too bad that we must depend upon the Little One for food. . . .” "But we must. It is part of the agreement with him.” “Yes — I know. And sometimes I think he got the best of the bargain,”

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36 WEIRD TALES "How can you tell? After all, the agree- ment is but a few thousand years old.” "You are right.” "And you must remember — in justice to him — that our method of eating gives us wondrous enjoyment. He tacked that on to the agreement.” "True. The vivid ecstasy of tasting food, while somebody else eats, is a never-ending source of new pleasures. ...” “And do not forget that the Little One, who eats for us, not only transfers the de- lightful sensations to us . . . but enhances our gratification with her sensations!” "Hm-m. Perhaps we did get the best of the bargain.” "All this talk has made me hungrier than ever. ...” I wanted so badly to run away. Wanted it more than anything. Because I knew what was coming. "Listen well, Little One.” "I listen. . . "And?” "... obey!” "Good. You will feed us tomorrow night.” "Tomorrow night?” "Yes. There must be no failure on your part.” "But ” ’’Yes?” "N-nothing. I was just thinking. I met someone today. . . .” "Excellent, Little One. That will make your task so much the easier.” I tried to go. But I couldn’t. It meant they were not through talking to me. I al- ways feel funny when I hear their voices. It is because their voices do not make any sound. "Do not forget what we enjoy best, Little One.” "I ... I will not forget.” "That is well. You once made a mis- take. ...” "But that was long ago. So very long ago.” "We have not forgotten. Remember that!” This time they let me go. As I turned, my eye caught a pretty shaft of moonlight com- ing through the window. They knew, im- mediately, that I enjoyed what I saw. So I was not surprised when the moonray was cut off. They simply blotted it out. I suppose the reason is to save my emo- tions for the feasts. All my emotions are wanted then; for, at those times, they relish and savor my thoughts and feelings as much as the food I eat. You would find it very unpleasant to watch them the times that I eat. I think that you would go quite mad. NEXT day I walked to the same spot in the park. Tommy was very happy to see me. And I was happy to see him. "Hello, Tommy.” "Hello . . . gosh . . . gee!” Tommy was so excited that he kept hop- ping from one foot to the other He just couldn’t keep his little body still. He tried to speak again, but spilled his words out so fast that it was impossible to understand him. So I spoke to him. I had to, anyway. There was so little time until tonight; and I had so much to do. "What are you so excited about, Tommy?” He couldn’t help himself. He kept wig- gling . and wiggling. He hopped up and down. Then, finally he blurted: "I’m seven years old!” "No. Really?” "Honest. It’s my birthday today. I’m every bit seven years old.” I had to think very hard. This would make things much more difficult. But I knew I daren’t fail. No. They wouldn’t like it. Even thinking of it made me feel weak. "Let’s play catch, Tommy. I want to learn how to throw like you do.” "Sure, I’ll show you. It’s easy.” "Thank you, Tommy.” "Aw shucks. You’re my friend, aren’t you?” "Yes, Tommy.” "Then why shouldn’t I help you?” I kept throwing the ball in such a way that we drifted apart from the other chil- dren and grownups. It was important. Dear little Tommy was very patient. Ele kept showing me what I was doing wrong. Over and over. When we were far enough away from the others I whispered to him: "Do you know what’s most fun to do on birthdays?”

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A BIRTHDAY PRESENT FOR TOMMY 37 "No. What?” "Surprising people.” "What do. you mean?” "I mean playing tricks. Suppose we take a little walk and then come back to them from another direction.” "Oh boy! They wouldn’t know where we came from. ...” "That’s right. Wouldn’t that be fun?” His face fell. "My Mummy wouldn’t like it. She always tells me never to go far away from my nurse. ...” "But, Tommy, you’re not a little boy any- more. You’re seven years old. And besides we won’t go very far.” "You promise?” "Of course. And then I’ve got my own surprise for you—” trA present?” I didn’t answer him because it wasn’t necessary. His mind was completely occu- pied with thinking about what I was going to give him. AND now time was getting short. I knew that in a few minutes Tommy would be missed; and they would begin looking for him. By this time we were on the lane that leads out of the park and onto the ave- nue. A light breeze carried along a fright- ening message. Someone was already calling for Tommy. As we left the park Tommy started to hang back. "We’re going too far.” "No, Tommy. We’re only going to get your present. My house is very near.” "And then we’ll go right back?” "Right back” "Good. I wouldn’t want nurse to worry about me.” His face was all lit up with eagerness as he trotted along next to me. "Why are you walking so fast?” "So that we can get back quickly.” At the house Tommy stopped. He bent his neck to one side. Then to the other. He was peering so hard that his eyes squinted up. What s the matter, Tommy?” "I don’t like this house. It’s funny.” "But I live here. It’s a pretty house.” "I don’t care. It’s funny.” In another minute Tommy would go chas- ing-pell-mell down the street, back to the park. I quickly looked up and down the quiet side-street. It was absolutely deserted. It came so fast that Tommy was only, capable of an astonished squawk. I twisted one of his arms behind him and shot him up the steps and into the room. And then he saw them. His mouth opened. Shocked surprise left his eyes to be replaced by blank, unreason- ing terror. A pulse in his temple began beat- ing like a tiny hammer. Saliva started run- ning out one corner of his mouth. And then they were on him. The room was filled with their shoutings and gigglings. But I knew that nobody out- side could hear them. Only I can hear them. Tommy was going fast. He was now in a corner, one hand held up before his eyes. His body was jerking faster and faster and a thin, steady whimpering fell from his wide- open mouth. Suddenly he fell. It was all over. I knew what I had to do. I hauled him to the center of the floor. Then they gathered around me in a circle. The room was filled with their noisy, hun- gry yelling. And yet the room was abso- lutely soundless, 'they were now ready to enjoy Tommy through me. It was for me to begin the feast. . „ «

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By HAROLD LAWLOR HAD it bad. My friends accuse me of enjoying these periodic black Irish moods, and that may be, but when I have ’em, I suffer. Noisily. I admit it makes it better when there’s somebody around to watch me in these Hibernian death throes — which was why I was in fine form the night Great- uncle Judson again came into my life. For Tim Murray was sitting opposite me on the sofa, and I, slumped despondently in my red leather lounge chair, yet had spirit Heading by BORIS DOLGOY ' 38

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THE PERIPATETIC CORPSE enough left to be giving a line performance. "You see before you,” I groaned oratori- cally, "One-Shot Eddie Walsh, the boy Maugham. I’m gonna knock myself off.” "What, again?” said Jim, making the ice clink against his glass. Try to get sympathy out of a doctor. Just try. Especially when he’s young and still serving his intemeship at the County Hos- pital, as Jim was. I ignored him. I moaned, "What good is a writer .who can’t write?” Jim sighed. "In fact, what good is a writer period.” "Oh, you can laugh,” I said darkly. "But I’m through, finished, washed-up. Or I will be if I don’t write another story soon, be- fore editors forget me. If I could only think of an opening, will you? Doesn’t anything weird ever happen down at that charnel house you work in?”. And that was what started it. For Jim began grandly," If you’re refer- ring to the County — ” And then he broke off, a strange expression on his face, and set his glass down very carefully on the coffee table (where it would leave a ring.) He started again. "As a matter of fact,” he said thought- fully, "something peculiar did happen down there last night. What could you do with this? A corpse walks into our morgue, evi- dently likes the looks of the place, lays him- self down in Drawer Eight, pushes the drawer shut, and apparently prepares to spend the rest of his life — I mean, death — right there.” I looked at Jim out of the corner of my eye. "Again?” "I’m not clowning,” Jim said. "That’s Just what happened, evidently. We have a corpse down there that must have walked in by itself. Because it wasn’t there at five yesterday afternoon, but it was in Drawer Eight this morning at nine. And nobody knows how it got there. Nobody signed the body in. There’s no record of it at all.” "Have your fun,” I said generously. "It’s the truth,” Jim said earnestly. "I swear it.” AND I believed him. At least to the ex- tent that there actually was an un- known corpse found down in the morgue. But the incident didn’t seem so terribly weird to me. "Well,” I said, "it’s simple. A couple in- ternes with what they think is a sense of humor got hold of a stiff some place and planted it there for a joke.” Jim shook his blond head stubbornly. "Show me the internes who’d do that, and keep their mouths shut afterward. The story would leak out somehow, and I’d have heard it. No, that corpse got in there through some other agency — granting that it didn’t walk in by itself. And, of course, it couldn’t have walked in by itself.” I was beginning to be interested. "Was it a man’s body or a woman’s?” "A man’s,” Jim said. "About seventy years old, I’d say. Funny thing, he’d been embalmed, too. Rouge on his cheeks, lip- stick on his mouth. You know the way undertakers duke ’em out.” "What are they going to do about him down there?” Jim shrugged. "Try to trace him, I sup- pose. If they once get a line on him, he oughtn’t to be hard to identify. Not with those birthmarks.” "Birthmarks?” "M-h’m. .Three V-shaped red ones, like birds in flight.” "Well, for God’s sake!” I shouted crab- bily. "I bit nicely that time, didn’t I? Though how you ever learned about Great- uncle Judson’s — ” But Jim was standing on his feet shouting crabbily at me. "You mean to tell me you know who he is!” I wasn’t getting this at all. Jim seemed to be deadly serious. I went on more quietly, "Listen, are you nuts, or am I? I’m talking about my Great-uncle Judson Worthen.” "I didn’t even know you had a Great- uncle Judson Worthen.” Jim. was still crabby. "Well, I did. And he had birthmarks — a good-sized V-shaped red one just above his left nipple, a smaller one above that, and a yet smaller one on his left shoulder. They looked just like three redbirds flying in for- mation.” Jim sank onto the sofa. "Then the body in the morgue is your great-uncle.” He de- livered his decision with an air of great authority.

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40 WEIRD TALES But I was shaking my head. "No.” "You mean he’s still living?” Jim asked. "Nh-nh. But he’s been under six feet of earth, out in Sleepmount Cemetery, since a year ago last September. I know, because I was at his funeral.” "Look,” Jim said irritably. "Sure, we have a corpse at the morgue. But it couldn’t be a year-and-a-half old corpse, for God’s sake!” "Well, you brought the subject up!” I was waxing peevish myself. “Of course, the corpse in the morgue can’t be Great-uncle Judson. It’s ridiculous!” My voice trailed away. Then I added tentatively, "just the same — ” “Just the same — ” Jim agreed. There is such a thing as consuming curi- osity. So, although it was eleven o’clock of a sweltering July night, Jim and I started for the morgue. YOU know, it’s all very well to be light- hearted and flippant and Irish — when you’re sitting in the safety of your own liv- ing room, surrounded by all the accustomed familiar things of daily living. But there’s something about a morgue — We didn’t have any trouble getting in, even at that somewhat unusual hour, because they knew Jim, of course. There was a cir- cular steel staircase winding down into dim- ness. On the left was a bride wall — painted once — scabrous now; on the right, a steel handrail. Both felt wet and slimy to the hand. After that first touch, I jerked my hands away and folded my arms, and walked di- rectly down the middle of the stairway be- hind Jim’s broad shoulders. Better to risk breaking a leg, I thought, than touch that chill dampness again — so suggestive of death and the grave. The farther down we descended the colder it grew. After the sultry heat up- stairs, the clamminess here was enough to lay me out. The place was air-conditioned of necessity for the preservation of bodies. I shivered. I remember I was wondering sourly what my curiosity would get me into next, when we reached the bottom of the steps. I slipped there, and would have fallen, but Jim’s hand steadied me in the dim light. Then we went across the concrete floor and through a heavy steel door that clanged shut behind us with a decidedly un- pleasant sound of finality. "Are you sure we can get out again?” I asked. Not that I was nervous, but my heart seemed to be playing hopscotch in my chest. "Sure. It doesn’t lock.” Jim grinned. "You superstitious Irish!” "I’m not superstitious,” I denied, not very convincingly. "I just don’t believe in going around, slapping the face of Fate.” Big Jim wasn’t listening. He was intro- ducing me to the morgue attendant, Pete. If the old codger had ever had a last name, it was lost in the mists of antiquity. He looked as if he’d been down there since Lincoln freed the slaves. At any minute, you felt, he might crawl over and lay himself down on one of the marble slabs forever. "Geez, what a cheerful place,” Lbreathed, looking it over. "You get used to it,” Pete assured me. He went on chewing his gum, making a soft thucking sound in the awful stillness. Jim and I stood there a minute, looking around. It was an old story to Jim, of course, but I was goggle-eyed. Here in the morgue itself it was brightly lighted from a row of unshaded bulbs over- head. The plaster walls were painted white, where they weren't taken up with the square black numbered faces of the vaults. The place reminded you of the locker room in an athletic club. Only not for one little minute did you think you were in the locker room of an athletic dub. You knew darned well where you were. "How do you stand the smell?” I asked Pete, sniffing. The heavy odor of decompo- sition was cut through by the sharper one of disinfectants. "Smells all right to me,” Pete said de- fensively. Evidently I’d hurt the old boy’s pride. "Where’s the smoke who got his neck carved?” Jim asked at a tangent. "Three,” Pe.fe said succinctly. Jim went over and pulled out drawer three. I guess I must have shut my eyes for a minute. If there was anything I didn’t want to see just then, it was a man, black or white, with a cut throat. But when I opened my eyes again I saw that Jim was only hors- ing around. Drawer three was empty, and

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THE PERIPATETIC CORPSE 41 Jim was eyeing me. And !he and Pete were purple with suppressed mirth. I suppose I’d turned white as a sheet. "For gosh sake, Jim!" I protested weakly. "Let’s see this unknown corpse you were talking about, and then let me out of here.” "Say, Doc,” Pete put in. "Will you hang around for a while, so’s I can go up and get a beer?” Before I could stop either of them, Jim nodded and Pete was gone. We’d have to wait until he came back. I gave Jim a dirty look, but he didn’t see it. He was walking over to Drawer 8, and reluctantly I followed him. I even managed to keep my eyes open when he pulled out the drawer. WELL, it was Great-uncle Judson Worthen, all right. But it was any- body’s guess as to how he’d pushed up six feet of heavy clay and hied himself eight miles across town from Sieepymount Ceme- tery to take up his abode in the County Morgue. Personally, if I were Uncle Judson I’d 'have stayed where I was. There was nothing about the County Morgue, that I could see, to give anyone a sentimental at- tachment to the place. I was thinking nonsense, of course. The fact is, though I was trying to bear up nobly under Jim’s gaze, I was scared stiff. And my feelings were harrowed, my sense of the fitness of things outraged. I remembered that interment, so many months before — the slow descent of the casket, the desolate thuds of those first handfuls of earth tossed into the yawning grave. Burial should be the final end, and the grave itself held inviolate. But now, inexplicably, here was the body of Great-uncle Judson once more! I didn’t like any of this. I didn’t want any part of it. My hair felt as if it were try- ing to stand up vertically, and icy chills were leaping up my spine and seemed to be spray- ing out fan-like over my head. I was sur- prised Jim couldn’t see them. I looked down at the cadaver. It was nude where we’d pulled down the sheet to see the three redbirds flying across the withered chest. f "He was wearing a biack suit when he was buried,” I said. Jim nodded. "He had it on when we found him this morning. They took it off and covered him with the sheet.” There was something pathetic about that defenseless body. I felt a growing anger in- side. I said, "It’s ridiculous to think he got over here by himself. Some ghouls must have dug him up, the — ” I choked. "They might have let him rest in peace.” Jim nodded again, but absently. "What’s that rope in his hands? We left it there, but it puzzled us.” I knew what he meant. "It’s a Chinese prayer string. Something like a rosary, you know, only with knots instead of beads. I put it in his hands myself at — at the time he was laid out.” We left the drawer open, and walked over toward the steel door by which we’d entered. We were both trying to think, and I suppose the idea of walking was auto- matic and natural. We stood there, with our backs to Uncle Judson Worthen’s corpse. "Strange the body’s in such a perfect state of preservation,” Jim muttered. "It’s un- natural.” "The thing is,” I said helplessly, "what’s to be done now?” Jim rubbed his forehead. "You’ve identi- fied him. I suppose in the morning you’ll have to get a burial permit and rebury him. Though how we’re going to explain all this—” I didn’t know myself. It was the strang- est set-up I’d ever encountered. But the worst was not yet. The worst happened im- mediately. Some movement behind me, perhaps, caused me to turn my head. And I think the only reason I didn’t start screaming like a siren was because the breath was completely knocked out of me by what I saw. My hand clawed at Jim’s shoulder and he, too, turned. We both turned stiff as any body in one of those lockers. For the corpse of Judson Worthen had somehow got itself up from the marble slab upon which it had been lying, and was standing now beside the open drawer! What’s more— it started walking! Walking — if you could call such horrible progress that. A semi-circular sway backward; a lurch as the right leg described another half -circle, back to the front; a thud as the naked right

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42 WEIRD TALES foot finally landed on the cement floor. Each movement took long seconds. Then the left leg began its dreadful mechanical stagger. Sway, lurch, thud! Sway, lurch — The cadaver had taken three of these ter- rible strides while Jim and I stood, shoul- der to shoulder, frozen to the cement floor. Sheer panic terror gripped us then, and we both turned on one impulse to flee blindly from the horror that was coming at us. But before we could yank the heavy metal door open, reason re-asserted itself. We stopped, and looked in each other’s eyes. And behind us the awful footsteps thudded on. We said it together. "We’ve got to stop him.” IT WASN’T easy to put that resolve into execution. But we didn’t even wait for the corpse to approach us. We walked slowly toward it, our hearts banging like trench mortars. Jim’s breath was sobbing wheezily through his nostrils; I could hardly see for the cold sweat that was pouring down from my forehead. We didn’t know what would happen. Great-uncle Judson’s eyes were open now, staring fixedly at a point above our heads. As if, before his blank gaze, were held up the alluring picture of the destination he was trying to reach. And he kept on walk- ing toward us as though his legs were obey- ing the injunction of some fearsome, de- tached intelligence. He paid no attention to us, seemed not to see us at all. Perhaps it was this that gave us courage. Gingerly approaching him on each side, Jim and I each took hold of one of his arms. It wasn’t that Uncle Judson tried to resist; it was, rather, that he kept on walking irresist- ibly. Or attempted to. But we were too much for him. Though we could feel the body exerting a steady pressure against our restraining hands, we half-carried, half-led it back to Drawer 8. We lifted it to place it on the marble slab it had so recently va- cated, drew up the sheet again, and closed die drawer. We stood there for minutes, half-expect- ing, I think, to see it open again. But it didn’t. Not then. "Come on,” Jim said finally. "Let’s get out of here.” He sounded as exhausted as I felt. As we opened the heavy steel door, we heard Pete clattering down the steps. "Better not tell Pete what we’ve seen,” Jim warned. But he needn’t have said it. I wasn’t sticking my neck out by telling Pete what we’d witnessed. "Not,” as I pointed out rea- sonably, "when the Psychopathic Hospital is only a stone’s throw away.” Jim nodded solemnly. “Whew!” I said, after I’d gratefully gulped the third double-brandy. We’d driven to a tavern Jim knew of, a few blocks away. "Now what was that all about? Do you suppose Uncle Judson isn’t — isn’t dead?” "The hell,” Jim said, injured. "What kind of doctor do you think I am? I know a corpse when I see one.” I knew I was raving. Hadn’t I, myself, attended the burial of Uncle Judson, a year ago last September? Of course, be was dead. "Maybe we didn’t see it. Him walking, I mean.” I was gibbering and I knew it. "Could those bright lights have hypnotized us, kind of, so that we dreamed it all?” "Maybe you were dreaming,” Jim said. " I was wide awake.” Well, there it was. I remember thinking dazedly that it was no wonder writers steered away from something that happened in real life when they tried to plot a story. Fiction, straight, was believable. Actual events were often incredible. Here was something which, if I tried to write it, no one would believe. I wouldn’t believe it my- self. Only it happened to me! "What kind of man was this great-uncle of yours?” Jim broke info my harried pre- occupation with my thoughts. "I hardly know myself.” I circled my glass on the bar nervously. "We -weren’t very close, even though I was his only heir. He was very wealthy when he was young. Traveled all over the world. Had his own yacht in those days. He was hard, selfish, uncompromising. Very introverted. I doubt if anyone ever knew him well — not even his wife. Although he was her brother, my grandmother used to say the only decent thing about him was that he never broke a

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THE PERIPATETIC CORPSE 43 promise. If he made one he kept it re- ligiously, at no matter what cost or effort to himself.” "What happened to his wife?” Jim asked. "She died?” I shrugged. "My grandmother told me only a little. But she was supposed to have run off with Uncle judson’s secretary. They say she was very beautiful. Her name was — Yasmini.” "Yasmini!” Jim was owl-eyed. “I know.” I nodded. “It all sounds im- possibly romantic. He was on his third cruise around the world, and picked her up some place in Asia Minor. They’d only been home three months or so when she ran away. After that he never spoke of her, or permitted anybody else even to mention her name. He just went on living alone in that house he finally left to me. You may have seen it — that place that looks like a Chinese tenement, sprawling all over the hill north of town?” "You mean that’s yours now? I’ve seen it. I thought it was an abandoned asylum of some sort.” "It’s a rabbit warren,” I admitted. "I wouldn’t live in it myself, and nobody in his right mind would buy it. There must be fifty rooms in it. Before he went broke, Uncle Judson was always adding new wings and additions to it.” "But why — if he lived there by himself?” "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe because it gave him something to do — after Yasmini ran away.” I stood up. I felt as if I hadn’t slept in a month. We separated, with a promise to meet in the morning. Then I’d have to do something about Great-uncle Judson’s body, unpleasant as the whole thing might be. I must have lain awake till four or five o’clock that morning, my mind going in crazy circles. Why was Unde Judson wandering around? Where was he going? The ceme- tery was south of town, the morgue in the middle, and Unde Judson’s former home outside the city limits on the north. Had he been heading for there, for some unex- plained reason? And if so, why should he stop over at the morgue? Unless, at night- fall, he had to be with his own kind — like a vampire in reverse. (They slept days, or so I’d been told.) But the more I thought of this theory, the more reasonable it seemed. And if the house was his ultimate goal, there was nothing to prevent me from going out there myself in search of any possible clue I might find as to what was drawing him there so irre- sistibly. I turned over on my side then, determined to wait for what the morning would bring. The morning brought murder. THE sound of a bell woke me at nine. I reached sleepily for the alarm, but it was the phone. Jim’s voice — sharp, unlike his normal tones — shocked me into complete wakefulness. "Get down here right away! I’m at the hospital.” And he hung up before I could ask him what v/as the matter. I found him in the lobby of the County Hospital, pacing impatiently, but he steered me out again almost before I’d got through the door. "We can’t talk here,” he said. “Come »> on. We went to a place, half-restaurant, half- tavern, deserted except for ourselves at this hour of the morning. We sat in a torn leather booth at the rear, and ordered coffee, before Jim said anything. Then his face haggard, his eyes bloodshot, he said, "Pete was murdered some time last night.” "Pete?” "The morgue attendant,” Jim said. "He was strangled.” My spoon hit the linoleum table-top, bounced to the floor. "Go on,” I said. I knew that wasn’t all. There was something in Jim’s face. "Drawer Eight was found open,” he said slowly. "And your uncle’s body is gone.” "Who’d steal a body from the morgue?” I said irritably. "Or strangle Pete to do it?” But Jim was eyeing me carefully. “I don’t think anyone did.” t got it, then. What he was driving at. "You think Uncle Judson — ” Jim nodded. "From the marks on Pete’s throat, it looks as if he was strangled with that Chinese prayer string. The pressure was so great that the skin was broken and blood was drawn. Tire prayer string is gone.

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44 WEIRD TALES And there’s something else — the black suit your uncle was wearing originally is miss- ing.” "I see.” I moistened my dry lips. "You think Uncle Judson started walking, and — Pete tried to stop him. And Pete was old and little and no match for — ” Jim nodded. “But that isn’t what’s both- ering me most. Wait till the police learn, as they surely will, that we were the last ones down there with Pete.” I thought about that for a while. We could never explain or make anybody be- lieve what we’d seen. Then something else occurred to me, and I drew in my breath sharply. "Jim, where is Uncle Judson now? And what if somebody else tries to stop him from walking?” So there it was. We couldn’t very well tell the police such a preposterous yarn. But we certainly couldn’t sit idly by while a murderous corpse ran amok. Yet what were we to do about it? - 1 told Jim of the theory I’d evolved dur- ing my sleepless night, but if he was en- thusiastic about it he hid it well. Still, since there seemed nothing better to do and he had the day off from the hospital, he agreed to go out to Uncle Judson’s place with me. THE house must have covered acres, and was the craziest mixture of unrelated architectural styles you ever saw. The main facade was red brick, and went on from there— stucco, half -timber, fieldstone, frame, or what have you? Wherever Uncle Judson had felt the urge to make an addi- tion he made it, using whatever materials the contractor of the moment had at hand. I’d never been entirely through the place myself, and Jim, having his first close-up view, was frankly flabbergasted. "Looking for a clue in that,” he jerked his head at the sprawling mass, "is going to take months.” Secretly I agreed with him, but the thing was to prove simpler than we’d feared. For Uncle Judson had left a wide trail. We left the car under the porte-cochere and entered the hall. The furniture had not been removed — only covered with dust sheets. The furnishings were as fantastic as the house itself, and the first thing we saw as we entered was the bronze statue of a nymph. I remembered her from an earlia: visit. She had stood at the foot of the stairs, holding a string of electric bulbs aloft. But now she was fallen from her marble pedes- tal and lying prone on the dusty floor. Jim pointed to the door and I nodded. Long parentheses in the dust showed where Uncle Judson’s lurching feet had passed. The statue must have stood in the way of his swaying progress and been knocked down. Or so we reasoned, from the signs before us. We went into the drawing room. Here a delicate gilt chair was on its side, its dust cover awry. Smaller pieces of furniture lay toppled over. A huge terra cotta jardiniere and the teakwood table which had held it were smashed beyond repair. At the far end of the room, a portiere was half-dragged from its rod. We followed the trail, through room after amazing room, bringing up at last in the barn-like kitchen. Here a door — leading to the cellars, evidently, from the dank air that blew upward — stood open. While Jim waited, I went back to the car for a flashlight. Then, slowly, we descended the steps leading to the cellars. And here we drew a blank. For the floor of hard-packed earth betrayed no footsteps, and the vast reaches of the place itself were discouraging. But we didn’t give up. We’d gone this far and we’d seen what we both believed to be definite proof of Uncle. Jud- son’s recent presence. Doggedly, we searched for hours. The cellars, like the house above, were divided into rooms — some small, some so huge that the far walls of the room evaded the rays of the flashlight and remained in inky gloom. But, except for the usual debris of such places, the cellars contained nothing that seemed significant. Where was Uncle Judson? And what had led him here? It was Jim, at last, who all unknowingly- solved the problem. Pausing in the search long enough to light a cigarette, Jim leaned back wearily against an empty tier of shelves lining the wail of the main room. And the shelves swung inward on a pivot. Jim fell flat on his back. I think he was stunned for a minute by the suddenness

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THE PERIPATETIC CORPSE 45 of it all — I know — I was — but he scrambled quickly to his feet. Together we propped the door open with a heavy case, passed through, and entered what seemed to be a long tunnel carved out of solid white lime- stone. I remember we stood there just inside the tunnel, while I played the flashlight around on the walls, ceiling, and floor. All seemed to be dripping with moisture, but the air was fairly fresh, indicating shafts some place leading to the outer air. Somehow, I felt that this tunnel was going -to lead to something unpleasant. But Jim and I exchanged glances, and there was in both our faces a grim determination to see this thing through to the end. We started down the tunnel, slowly, be- cause the rough limestone floor made our footing precarious. I don’t know at just what point the conviction seized me, but it wasn’t long before I knew we were no longer under the house. "I hope the flashlight doesn’t go out,” Jim whispered once. The same thought had just been occurring to me. But neither of us suggested turning bade. We kept on. Until at last we came to the end of the tunnel, came to where it broadened out, but not very much, into a chamber hewn from the solid rock. Two huge steel doors that, when closed, could shut the chamber off from the rest of the tunnel were folded back now against either wall. And there, facing us, was yet another segment of what seemed to be a patternless puzzle. But, though the scene was macabre in the flashlight’s yellow glow, I knew no feeling of terror. Only a sick pity. Two skeletons — obviously, from their size, those of a man and woman — sat to- gether on a stone ledge jutting out from the far wall facing us. Rusty chains ran from their handcuffed wrists through iron rings in the wall behind them. From the ceiling of the chamber depended a naked electric light with a pointed bulb of the old-fash- ioned variety, long since burned out. I swung the flashlight around. It was only then that I noticed the doors. Those doors, I reasoned, that up until a few short hours before, had been sealed and locked for many, many years. On their inner surfaces — the sides that would face the skeletons when they were closed — were painted in red letters the words : "When 1 am dead, Yasmini, then you shall he free.” Jim saw the words, too. "Yasmini!" he whispered. "But — the other?” I knew. It took no great wit to know. I said slowly, "I’m afraid Yasmini didn’t run away with Uncle Judson’s secretary. Or, at least, not very far. Uncle Judson must have grown suspicious, and he took his own re- venge.” For surely this was his doing, these were his words here on the doors — a cruel an- swer, perhaps to Yasmini’s frantic plea for freedom? By the flashlight’s rays, I saw that the upper half of the man’s skelton was bent over the other, as if he’d tried to shut out from her eyes with his own body the horror of the fate that was slowly to overtake them, there in the lighted tomb. Perhaps to shut out, too, the promise of Uncle Judson’s mocking there in its letters of fire: "When I am dead, Yasmini, then you shall be free.” A taunting promise. But a promise. And Uncle Judson had never been known to break a promise. Jim and I stared at the tiny, once-lovely hand of Yasmini still clasped in the man’s larger one. And I was hoping desperately that she had died before him, that she had not lived on, perhaps for hours or days, alone with the body of her dead lover, and — terror. Jim and I turned away to examine the doors. The huge lock that had been used to fasten them on the outer side was covered with mold of a brilliant emerald-green color. And there was no key. But the doors were open now. Yasmini was free. One last glance into the death chamber, subdued and a little sickened, then we re- traced our steps back through the cellars, the house, to the car. DON’T understand,” Jim said numbly, X in the car. "I don’t understand.” Neither did I. But then who could? Who does know anything of the mystery that lies beyond life? Of the forces that operate there?

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46 WEIRD TALES "It seems obvious enough,” I said, "that Great-uncle Judson made a promise. And came back to keep it.” “But why wait till now?” Jim added. "He died nearly two years ago. Why did he wait until now?” I could only guess, of course. But so deep was my conviction that I was right, that I wouldn’t have called it guesswork at all. “Perhaps, ordinarily, no one could come back from the grave to unlock that door. Perhaps, though, the desire to do so was so strong in Uncle Judson that it became a live thing, an animus, a living spirit strong enough to re-animate the body and sent it here to fulfill its promise.” But Jim was less haggard now. He was the hard-headed realistic doctor once more. He stared at me, disgusted. "And then again, perhaps we didn’t see that corpse walking. Perhaps it wasn’t the body of your Uncle Judson. If it was, where is he now?” I didn’t know. But I thought I could guess. "Perhaps,” Jim finished. "Perhaps we’re crazy — suffering from an hallucination more real than life itself.” The police, as we were so soon to learn, agreed with him. FUR, as Jim had feared, the police learned of our last night’s visit to the morgue. And when they were unable to find us that day, because we’d gone to Uncle Judson’s house, warrants Tor our arrest were sworn out. They thought we’d committed murder, then fled. And here, they reasoned now at our reap- pearance, were tire fugitives returned to give themselves up. Questioning, then. Endless hours of it, led by a lieutenant from the Homicide Bureau, Fitzjames. They questioned us sep- arately and together, but they couldn’t shake our story. Nor could we convince them we were speaking the truth. A corpse murdered Pete? A walking corpse? You wouldn’t try to kid us, would you? A detail went out with us to Uncle Jud- son’s house, and found that part of our story true as we’d described it — the tunnel, the chamber, the skeletons. And so what? What did that prove? It was then — weary, defeated — that I finally made my request. A request I firmly believed would be denied, but surprisingly was not. "You want us to exhume the body of year great-uncle?” Lieutenant Fitzjames asked softly. After what appeared to be a moment of startled thought he smiled thinly, and stopped tapping his pencil against the thumb of his left hand. "Okay, we’ll get in touch with the coroner’s office.” I was incredulous. "You mean — you’re really beginning to believe me at last?” Lieutenant Fitzjames' continued to smile unpleasantly. "I’m giving you rope enough to hang yourself, buddy. You and your pal. Either we’re going to find your uncle’s grave disturbed and indications that you re- cently planted some incriminating evidence there, or else — ” "Or else?” Jim and I said it together. "Or else we’re going to find your uncle’s body in a normal state of decomposition— which will knock your nutty story into a cocked hat.” But by that time I wTas too dull and numb to be alarmed. God knows what I expected Uncle Judson’s grave to reveal when I made my request for an exhumation. But the thing had started there, and if it was to have any ending — any hope of salvation for us — - it seemed reasonable, even in my present state of despair, to believe it was there that we would find it. And I remember on that ride to Sleepy- mount Cemetery, all I could think of was the steel doors of Yasmini’s living tomb, and the relentless lock that had held them closed, covered with mold of a venomous brilliant green. A color that would be to me always the color of death. Lieutenant fitzjames smiled a little as we stood under the granite shaft marking the grave of my Great-uncle Judson Worthen. Smiled, for the ground quite evidently had never been disturbed since the interment, nearly two years before. "Well,” Fitzjames said grimly, "it won’t be a question of planted evidence. Nor grave-robbers.” One of the men examined the sod care- fully. Cemetery workers thrust a spade into the solid earth.

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THE PERIPATETIC CORPSE "No digging here for months,” was the verdict. The grave had never been dis- turbed since the burial. They’d swear to it — in any court. ■OITZJAMES was satisfied. "Dig!” he or- -i- dered. I couldn’t watch those busy spades. Once I looked at the stars. Another time I stole a glance at Jim’s haggard face, and read in his hopeless eyes what I knew must be in mine. The fear that all this would lead to nothing that could help us, that whatever we’d seen last night in the morgue had not been the body of Uncle Judson. And then at last the cement burial vault was raised. And there was a grim look of satisfaction on Fitzjames’ face as the seal was broken. It had not been tampered with, until now. The casket lid, next. The crowd- ing forward of witnesses. Lieutenant Fitzjames was fumbling for <47 his handkerchief, then, wiping the sweat jerkily from his forhead. Great-uncle Judson’s face, serene and quite unblemished, was revealed in the light of the dark lantern. He was decently dad once more in his black suit. And did I imagine it, or was there a smile of content- ment on those thin lips? I remember Fitzjames removing the Chi- nese prayer string from the stiff fingers. Re- member him muttering, "We’ll check the bloodstains at the laboratory.” I knew it would prove to be Pete’s blood (as later, in fact, it did.) And I knew that Jim and I were free, for no earthly power could have insinuated that recently used prayer string into an untouched grave. But now none of this mattered. For Jim and I were staring at that other thing in Uncle Judson’s hand — that great key covered with mold of a brilliant venom- ous green — a color that would always re- mind me of death. Coming from ARKHAM HOUSE! SOMETHING NEAR, by August Derleth The first of six new books for 1945, Mr. Derleth’s second collection contains 20 stories, two of them novelettes. Here are The Thing That Walked on the Wind, The Metronome, Ithaqua, The Satin Mask , An Elegy for Mr. Danielson, Carousel, Mr. Ames’ Devil, Beyond the Threshold, Mrs. Corter Makes Up Her Mind, and 11 others. Jacket by Ron Clyne. Ready in early Spring. $3. GO the copy. WARNING TO THE FANS! Just as we have done before, we are serving notice that our 1944 books are going fast. Less than half the only edition of Wandrei’s THE EYE AND THE FINGER, and approximately half the only editions of Whitehead’s JUMBEE AND OTHER UNCANNY TALES, Smith’s LOST WORLDS, and Love- craft’s MARGINALIA remain for sale. Derleth’s SLEEP NO MORE has sold out its first edition, is in its second; but there will be no second editions of Arkham House books. G R ^ER_TOD A Y_ _ ARKHAM HOUSE Sauk Ci4y«, Wlscouslra Please send me the following books, for which I enclose payment in full: copies of SOMETHING NEAR at $8.00 (to be delivered on publication) copies of THE EYE AND THE FINGER at $3.00 copies of JUMBEE AND OTHER UNCANNY TALES at $3.00 copies of LOST WORLDS at $3.00 copies of MARGINALIA at $3.00 copies of SLEEP NO MORE! at $2.60 Name „ Address

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By MANLY WADE WELLMAN "IT ESS than five persons have ever seen John Thunstone frankly, visibly t terrified, and less than two have lived through subsequent events to tell about it. Fear he knows and understands, for it is his chief study; but he cannot afford it very often as a personal emotion. And so he only smiled a little that after- noon in Central Park, and the hand at which Sabine Loel, the medium clutched was as steady as the statue of Robert Burns under which she had asked him to meet her. A few snowflakes spun around them, settling on their dark coats. "I say that you are in more than mortal danger,” she repeated breathily. "I would not have dared re- call myself to your attention for anything less important.” "I believe that,” smiled Thunstone, re- membering when last they met, and how he had, demonstrated to her complete satisfac- tion the foolish danger of calling up evil 48 Heading by BORIS BOLGOV

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■THE SHONGKINS 49 spirits without being ready to deal with them. Not one ounce of his big powerful body seemed tense. His square face was pale only by contrast to his black eyes and black mustache. Not even his restraint seemed overdone. "Whatever you think of my character, you know that I’m sensitive to spirit messages,” she went on. "This one came without my trying for it. Even the spirit control that gave it was in horror. The Shonokins are after you.” "I might have known that,” he told her. "After all, I acted with what they might consider officious enmity. I stopped them, I hope, from a preliminary move back to- ward the world power they say they held before human history began, A Shonokin died, not by my hand but by my arrange- ment, and his body was buried at a place where I want them never to come — living Shonokins, it seems, avoid only dead Shono- kins. Their very nature forces them to strike back at me. But thank you for the warn- ing-” "You think,” ventured Sabine Loel, "that I want to be your friend?” "You do, though your purpose is prob- ably selfish. Thank you again. Now, I never had any malice toward you — so, for your own safety, won’t you go away and stay away? Avoid any further complica- tion in — in what’s to happen between me and the Shonokins.” "What precautions — ” she began to ask. "Precautions against the Shonokins,” ex- plained Thunstone patiently, "are not like precautions against anything else in this world or out of it. Let them be my problem. Good-by.” Going,, she looked back once. Her face was whiter than the increasing snowflakes. Thunstone filled his pipe with tobacco into which were mixed one or two rank but significant herbs. Long Spear, the Indian medicine man, had told him how much such things did to fight ill magic. THUNSTONE was living just then in a very comfortable, very ordinary hotel north of Times Square. He entered the lobby confidently enough, and rode up in the elievator without seeming to be appre- hensive. But he paused in the corridor out- side his own door as cautiously as though about to assail an enemy stronghold. He bent dose to the panels without touching them. Earlier in the day he had closed and locked that door from outside, and had dripped sealing wax in three places at juncture of door and jamb, stamping the wax with the crusader’s ring he habitually wore. The wax looked undisturbed, its im- press of the cross of Saint John staring np at him. With a knife-point he pried the blobs away. They had not been tampered with in the least. Inserting his key in the lock, he let himself in and switched on the lights in the curtained sitting room. At once he started back against the in- ner side of the door, setting himself for action. His first thought was that two men were there, one prone and one standing tensely poised. But, a hair-shaving of time later, he saw that these were dummies. The reclining dummy was made of one of Thunstone’s suits and a pillow from the bed in the next room. It lay on its back, cloth-stuffed arms and legs outflung. A tightly looped necktie made one end of the pillow into a headlike lump, and on this had been smudged a face, crudely but rec- ognizably that of John Thunstone. Ink from the stand on the desk had been used, to indicate wide, stupid eyes, a slack mouth under a lifelike mustache — the expression of one stricken instantly dead. The other figure stood with one slippered foot on the neck of the Thunstone effigy. It was smaller, perhaps a shade under the size of an aver- age man. Sheets and towels and blankets, cunningly twisted, rolled and wadded to- gether, made it a thing of genuinely artistic proportion and attitude. A sheet was draped loosely over it like a toga, and one corner of this veiled the place where a face would be. "Substitution magic?” said Thunstone un- der his breath. "This is something that’s going to happen to me. ...” He turned toward the desk. "What’s that?” On the desk seemed to crouch a little pixy figure. Made from a handkerchief, like a clever little impromptu toy to amuse a child, it looked as though it pored over an open book, the Gideon Bible that is an item in every hotel room. Stepping that way,

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50 WEIRD TALES very careful not to touch anything. Thun- stone bent to look. The book was open to the Prophet Joel, second chapter. Thunstone’s eye caught a verse in the middle of the page, the ninth verse: They leap upon the city; they run upon the wall; they climb up into the houses; they enter in at the windows like a thief. HUNSTONE has read many books, and the Bible is one of them. He knew the rest of the frightening second chapter of Joel, which opens by foretelling the coming of terrible and ungainsayable people, before which no normal creature could stand. "They enter in at the windows like a thief,” he repeated, and inspected his own win- dows, in the sitting room and the adjoining bedroom. All were closed, and tire latches still bore blobs of wax with his seal. These phenomena had taken place, it re- mained to be understood, without the agency of any normal entry by normal beings. Movement and operation by forces at a dis- tance— telekinesis was the word for it, fondly used by Charles Richet of France, and tossed about entertainingly by the Forteans and other amateur mystics. Thoughts crossed Thunstone’s mind, of broken dishes placed in locked chests by Oriental fakirs and taken out mended; of Harry Houdini’s escapes and shackle-sheddings, which many persons in- sisted were by supernatural power; of how the living body of Caspar Hauser had so suddenly flicked into existence, and of how the living body of Ambrose Bierce had so suddenly flicked out. There were a variety of other riddles, which many commentators purported to explain by the overworked extra-dimensional theory. Somebody or. something, it remained, had fashioned a likeness of his own downfall in his own sitting room, without getting in. Again ap- proaching the desk without touching the Bible or the little figure crouched beside it, Thunstone drew out a drawer and produced sheaf of papers. The top sheet was a second or third car- bon of his own typescript. Other copies of this sheet were sealed in various, en- velopes with equally interesting documents, placed here and there in the custody of trusted allies, each envelope inscribed To be opened only in the event of my death — John Thunstone. The knowledge that such collections existed was a prime motive of some of Thunstone’s worst enemies to keep him alive and well. There was Sabine Loel’s warning, for instance. . . . Sitting down well away from the grotesque tableau, Thunstone glanced over his own grouping of known and suggested facts about the Shonokins. Those facts were not many. The Shono- kins were, or said they were, a people who had been fortuitously displaced as rulers of America by the ancestors of the red Indians. A legend which they themselves insisted upon was that ordinary human evolution was one thing and Shonokin evolution another. They hinted here and there at tokens of long-vanished culture and power, and at a day soon to come when their birthright would return to them. To Thunstone’s car- bon were appended the copy of a brief article on the "Shonokin superstition” from the Encyclopedia of American Folkways; a let- ter from a distinguished but opinionated professor of anthropology who dismissed the Shonokins as an aboriginal myth less well founded than Hiawatha or the Wen- digo; and Thunstone’s own brief account of how someone calling himself a Shonokin had made strange demands on the Conley family on a Southern farm, and of what had befallen that same self-styled Shonokin. Finishing the study of his own notes, Thunstone again regarded the grouped dum- mies, which he had thus far forborne to touch. The standing figure, with its foot on the neck of the Thunstone likeness, had hands that thrust out from under its robe. They had been made of a pair of Thunstone’ s own gloves, and on closer scrutiny proved to be strangely prepared. The forefinger and middle finger of each had been racked in at the tip, so that the third fingers extended longest. The only Shonokin that Thunstone had ever met had displayed third fingers of that same unnatural proportion. Thunstone nodded to himself, agreeing that this was plainly the effigy of a Shonokin. He turned his mind to the problem of why the images had been thus designed and posed. A simple warning to him? He did not think so. The Shonokins, whatever they

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THE SHONOKINS 51 really were and wanted, would not deal in warnings — not with him at least. Was the group of figures then an actual weapon, like the puppets which wizards pierce with pins to torture their victims? But Tbunstone told himself that he had never felt better in his life. What remained? What reaction, for instance, was expected of him? He mentally put another person in his place, a man of average mind, reaction and behavior. What would such a person do? Tear up the dummies, of course, with right- eous indignation — starting with that simula- tion of the Shonokin with a conquering foot on its victim’s neck. Thunstone allowed himself the luxury of a smile. "Not me,” he muttered. Yet again he went to the desk, and re- turned the paper to the drawer. He opened another drawer. Catching hold of the Bible, he used it to thrust the little handkerchief- doll into the drawer, closed and locked it in. Then, and not until then, he approached the two full-sized figures. They were ar- ranged on a rug. For all its crumpled-fabric composition, the simulated Shonokin seemed to stand there very solidly. John Thunstone knelt, gingerly took hold of the arm of his own image, and with the utmost deliberation and care eased it toward him, from under the foot of its oppressor. When he had dragged it clear of the rug, he took hold of the edge of the rug itself and drew it smoothly across the floor. The Shonokin shape rode upright upon it. He brought it to the door of the empty sitting room closet, opened the door, and painstakingly edged the thing, rug and all, inside. This done, he closed and locked the door. From the bedroom he brought sticks of sealing wax, which he always kept in quan- tity for unorthodox uses. After some min- utes, he had sealed every crack and aperture of the closet door, making it airtight. He marked the wax here and there with the Saint John’s cross of his ring. Finally re- turning to his own likeness, he lifted it con- fidently and propped it upright in a chair, and sat down across from it. He winked at the rough mockery of his own face, which did not seem so blank and miserable now. Indeed, it might be said to wink back at him; or perhaps the fabric of the pillow-slip was folded across one of the smudgy eyes. A little quiver ran through the room, as though a heavy truck had trundled by some- where near. But no truck would be operat- ing in the sealed closet. Thunstone lighted his pipe again, gazing into the gray clouds of smoke he produced. What he may have seen there caused him to retain his smile. He sat as relaxed and motionless as a big, serene cat for minutes that threatened to become hours, until at last his telephone rang. “Hello,” he said into the instrument. "This is John Thunstone.” "You danger yourself," a voice told him, a voice accented in a fashion that he could not identify with any foreign language group in all his experience. "And you are kind to warn me,” replied Thunstone with the warmest ak of cordial- ity. "Are you going to offer me advice, too?” "My advice is to be wise and modest. Do not try to pen up a power greater than hurri- canes.” "And my advice,” returned Thunstone, "is not to underestimate the -wit or determi- nation of your adversary. Good day.” HE HUNG up the receiver, reached for the Bible, and turned from the Prophet Joel to the Gospel of Saint John. Its first chapter, specified by the old anti-diabolists as a direct indictment of evil magic’s weak- ness, gave him comfort, though he was read- ing it for perhaps the four hundredth time. The telephone rang again, and again he lifted it. "I deplore your bad judgment in chal- lenging us,” said the same voice that had spoken before. "You are given one more chance.” "That’s a lie,” said Thunstone. "You wouldn’t give me a chance under any cir- cumstances. I won’t play into your hands.” He paused. "Rather unusual hands you have, don’t you? Those long third fingers—” This time it was his caller who hung up suddenly. Musing, Thunstone selected from his shelf of books a leather-bound volume entitled These Are Our Ancestors. He leafed through it, found the place he wanted, and began to read; Stone-age Europe was spacious, rich

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52 ■ WEIRD TALES and uncrowded, but it could acknowledge only one race of rulers. Homo Neanderthdensis — the Nean- derthal Man — must have grown up there from the dim beginning, was supreme and plentiful as the last glaciers receded. His bones have been found from Ger- many to Gibraltar, jmd his camps and flints and fire-ashes. We construct his liv- ing image, stooped and burly, with a great protruding muzzle and beetling brows. Perhaps he was excessively hairy — not a man as we know men, but not a brute, either. Fire was his, and the science of flint-chipping. He buried his dead, which shows he believed in an after-life, prob- able in a diety. He could think, perhaps he could speak. He could fight, too. When our true forefathers, the first Homo Sapiens, invaded through the east- ern mountain passes or out of the great valley now drowned by the Mediter- ranean, there was battle. Those invaders were in body and spirit like us, their chil- dren. They could not parley with the abhorrent foe they found. There could be no rules of warfare, no truces or trea- ties, no mercy to the vanquished. Such a conflict could die only when the last adversary died. This dawn-triumph of our ancestors was the greatest, because the most funda- mental, in the history of humanity. No champion of mankind ever bore a greater responsibility to the future than that first tall hunter who crossed, all aware, the borders of Neanderthal country. THE book sagged in Thunstone’s hands. His eyes seemed to pierce the mists of time. He saw, more plainly than in an ordinary dream, a landscape of meadow and knoll and thicket, with wooded heights on the horizon. Through the bright morning jogged a confident figure, half-clad in fur, with his long blade hair bound in a snake- skin fillet, a stone axe at his girdle and a bone-tipped javelin in one big hand. If the frill of beard had been shaved from his jaw, he might have been taken for John Thunstone. He was trailing something — the deer he had waylaid and speared earlier in the day. There it was up ahead, fallen and quiet and dead. The hunter’s wise eyes narrowed. Something dark and shaggy crouched be- yond it, seeming to drag or worry at the carcass. A bear? The javelin lifted in the big tanned fist, the bearded mouth shouted a challenge. At that the shaggy thing rose on two legs to face him, and it was not a bear. Thunstone’s eloquent fancy had identified the hunter with himself. It was as if he personally faced that rival for the dead prey, at less than easy javelin-casting distance. It stood shorter than he but broader, its shoulders and chest and limbs thatched with hair. Its eyes met his without faltering, deep bright eyes that glared from a broad shallow face like the face of a shaggy lizard. Its ears pricked like a wolf’s, it slowiy raised immense hands, and the third fingers of those hands were longer than the other fin- gers. Thunstone rose from his chair. The fan- cied landscape of long ago faded from his mind’s eye, and he was back in his hotel sitting room. But the' hairy thing with the strange hands was there, too, and it was moving slowly forward. Thunstone’s .immediate thought was that he had expected something like this. The Neanderthal man, says H. G. Weils, was undoubtedly the origin of so many unchan- cey tales of ogres, trolls, mantacors and sim- ilar monsters. Small wonder that such a forbidding creature had impressed itself on the night memories of a race. ... It was not coming toward him, but past him, toward the sealed door. Its strange-fingered hands pawed at the sealed cracks. Thunstone’s pipe was still in his hand. It had not gone out. He carried it to his mouth, drew strongly to make the fire glow, and walked across the carpet to the very side of the hairy thing. When he had come within inches, he blew a thick cloud of the herb-laden smoke into the ungainly face. Even as it lurched around to glare, it was dissolving like one scene in a motion pic- ture melting into another. It vanished as the smoke-cloud vanished. The telephone was ringing yet a third time. Patiently he answered it. "You are now aware,” he was told by the same accented voice, "that even your own thoughts may turn to fight you.”'

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THE SHONOKINS 53 "Any man may dismiss his own thoughts,” replied Thunstone at once. "I have a spe- cial hell to which I send thoughts that annoy me. Can you afford to go on blundering? Why do you not call on me in person? My door is unlocked.” "So is mine,” replied the other coldly. "On the floor below yours. Room 712. Come down if you dare.” "I dare, and do defy you for a villain,” quoted Thunstone from Shakespeare, who also made a study of supernormal phenom- ena. Hanging up, he took from his smok- ing stand a glass ash tray. In this he pains- takingly built a gratelike contrivance from paper clips, and upon the little grate kindled a fire of wooden match sticks. When it blazed up, he fed upon it some crumbs of his blended tobacco and herbs, and when these caught fire he poured on a full hand- ful of the pungent mixture. It took the flame bravely. He carried it across the room, setting it in front of the sealed closet. The smoke curled up as from an incense burner, shrouding the entire wall from any magical intruder. Thunstone nodded approval to himself, went out, down one flight of stairs, and knocked on the door marked 712. The door opened a crack, showing a slice of sallow brown face. A deep black eye peered at Thunstone, and then the door opened. A hand with a too-long third finger waved as if inviting him in. He crossed the threshold. THE room was dim, with curtains drawn and a single crudely molded candle burn- ing on a center table. Three Shonokins were there — one motionless under a quilt on the bed, one at the door, the third sunk in the armchair. They might have been triplets, all slender and sharp-faced, with abundant shocks of black hair. They all wore neat suits of gray, with white shirts and black ties, but to Thunstone it seemed that they were as strange to such clothing as if they had come from a far land or a far century. The door closed behind him. "Well?” he said. The Shonokin by the door and the Shono- kin in the chair gazed a± him with malig- nant eyes of purest, brightest black. Their hands stirred, rather nervously. Their finger- nails appeared to be sharp, perhaps arti- ficially cut to ugly points. The Shonokin on the bed neither moved nor stared. Toward him Thunstone made a gesture. "I guessed more correctly about you than you about me,” he said. "Your languid friend yonder — would it be tactless, per- haps to suggest that he lies there without any soul in him? Or that his soul is upstairs, animating a certain rude image which I have sealed carefully away?” "We,” said the seated Shonokin, "have never been prepared to admit the existence of souls.” "Tag it by whatever name you like,” nodded Thunstone, "this specimen on the bed seems to be without it, and worse for being without it. Suppose we establish a point from which to go on with our discus- sion. You were able to fabricate, in my room, a sort of insulting tableau. I, for my part, was to enter, be surprised and angry, and attempt to tear it to pieces. Doing that, I would release upon myself — what?” "You do not know,” said the standing Shonokin tensely. It was his voice, Thun- stone recognized, that had given the various telephone messages. "Oh, it might have been any one of sev- eral things that hostile and angry spirits can accomplish,” went on Thunstone with an air of carelessness. "I might have be- come sick, say; or have gone mindless; or the cloth, as I loosened it, might have smothered me strangely, and so on. Strange you went in for such elaborate and sinister attacks, when a knife in the back might have done as well. You intend to' kill me, don’t you?” He looked at one of his interrogators, then the other, then once more at the figure on the bed. That Shonokins face looked as pale as paper under its swarthiness. The lips seemed to’quiver, as if trying feebly to gulp air. "I think that it has been well established,” Thunstone resumed, "that when a body sends forth the power that animates it, for good or for evil, it will die unless that power soon returns. But this doesn’t touch on why you dared me to come down here. Did you dream that I wouldn’t call your bluff. For it was a bluff, wasn’t it?” The eyes of the two conscious Shono- kins were like octopus eyes, he decided. The

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54 WEIRD TALES Shonokins themselves might be compared to the octopus people, whose natural home was deep in ocean caves, from which speci- mens ventured on rare occasions to the sur- face when man could see and divide his emotions between wonder and horror. . . “Thank you for giving us another thought to turn against you,” said the Shonokin in the chair. THE dark room swam, swam literally, for to Thunstone it was as though warm rippling waters had come from somewhere to close over his head. Through the semi- transparency writhed lean dark streamers, like a nest of serpents, their tips questing toward him. At the ends furthest from him they joined against a massive oval bladder, set with two eyes like ugly jewels. An oc- topus— and a big one. Its eight arms, lined with red-mouthed suckers, were reaching for Thunstone. By instinct, he lifted his hands as though in defense. His right hand held his pipe, and its bowl emitted a twirl of smoke. Smoke under water! — -But this was not water, it was only the sensation of water, conjured out of his chance thought by Shon- okin magic. As the wriggling, twisting tentacles began to close around him, Thun- stone put his pipe to his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke. The room cleared. It was as it had been. Thunstone tapped ashes from his pipe, and filled and lighted it as before. "You see,” said the seated Shonokin, "that any fancy coming into your mind may blossom into nightmare. Is it a pleasant future to foresee, John Thunstone? You had better go up and open that sealed door.” Thunstone’s great head shook, and he smiled under his mustache. "Just now,” he said, "I am thinking of someone very like you, who died and was buried at the Conley farm. Why not make him appear out of my meditations?” "Silence!” snarled the Shonokin who had opened the door. His hand lifted, as if to menace Thunstone with its sharp nails. "You do not know what you are talking about.” "3ut I do,” Thunstone assured him gent- ly. "Living Shonokins fear only dead Shonokins.” "Shonokins do not die,” gulped the one in die dark. “You have tried to convince yourselves of that by avoiding all corpses of your kind,” Thunstone said, "yet now you are in dread of this dying companion of yours. His life is imprisoned upstairs. Without it he strangles and perishes. I learn more and more about your foolish Shonokin ways.” "You learn about us?” snapped the stand- ing one. "We are ancient and great. We had power and wisdom when your fathers were still wild brutes. When you understand that — ” “Ancient?” broke in Thunstone. "Yes, you must be. Only an unthinkably old race could have such deep-seated folly and nar- rowness and weakness. Do you really think that you can swarm out again from wher- ever you have cowered for ages, to over- throw mankind? Human beings at least dare look at their own dead, and to move over those dead to win fights. You vain and blind Shonokins are like a flock of raiding crows, to be frightened away by hanging up a few carcasses of your own kind — ” "I have it!” cried the Shonokin who had stood by the door. Weasel-swift and weasel-silent, he had leaped at Thunstone, snatched the pipe, and leaped away again. A wisp of the smoke rose to his pinched nostrils, and he dropped the pipe with a strange exclamation that might have been a Shonokin oath. "Without that evil-smelling talisman,” said the seated one, “I leave you to your latest fancy — raiding crows.” The room was swarming full of them, black and shining and clatter-voiced. A whir of many wings, a cawing chorus of gaping bills, churned around Thunstone, fanned the air of the room. Then, of a sudden, they were swarming — where? "Now do you believe that your kind can die?” said Thunstone bleakly, his voice ris- ing above the commotion. "The crows be- lieve it. For they attack the dead, not the living.” HpHE crows, or the vision of them, indeed -L thronged over and upon the bed, settling into a black, struggling mass that hid the form that lay there. ■

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THE SHONOKINS **I thought on purpose of carrion-birds,” said Thunstone. "Your power to turn thoughts into nightmares has rebounded. ’ He spoke to the backs of the two living Shonokins. They were running. He won- dered later if they opened the door or, by some power of their own, drifted through it. He followed them as far as the hall, in time to see them plunging down the stairway. Stepping back into the room, he retrieved his pipe and drew upon it. At the first puff of smoke the crows were gone, leaving him alone with the silent figure on the bed. Now he made sure, touching the chill wrist and twitching up a flaccid eyelid, that the Shonokin was dead. He made a tour of the room, in which there seemed to be no luggage — only a strange scroll of some mate- rial like pale suede, covered with charac- ters Thunstone could not identify, but he pocketed it for more leisurely study. Out into the hall he strolled, smoking thought- fully. He was beginning to like that herb mixture, or perhaps he was merely grateful to it. Back in his own quarters, he opened the sealed closet door without hesitation. On the floor lay a crumpled heap of sheets, garments and other odds and ends, as if 55 something had worn them and had shaken them off. Thunstone carried them into his bedroom, then dismantled the image of him- self. He telephoned for a chambermaid to make the bed and a tailor to press the suit. At length he departed to find a favorite restaurant. He ordered a big dinner, and ate every crumb with an excellent appe- tite. When he returned to the hotel late that evening, the manager told him of the sud- den death, apparently from heart disease, of a foreign-seeming man in Room 712. The man had had friends, said the manager, but they could not be found. He was about to call the morgue. "Don’t,” said Thunstone. "I met him. I’ll arrange funeral details and burial.” For a Shonokin corpse, buried in the lit- tle private cemetery on the farm he had in- herited, would make that refuge safe from at least one type of intruder. The manager, who knew better than to be surprised at Thunstone’s impulses, only- asked, "Will you notify his relatives?” "None of his relatives will care to come to the funeral,” Thunstone assured the man- ager, "or anywhere near his grave.” Wind Walks Not Alone By DAN KELLY A LL of the lights in the world are out, -i Y. 'j'p.Q stars cloud-covered and lost; Nothing alive can travel about, Only the wind and the frost. Only the wind can rustle the sand And frost can whiten the coast, But then, that wind and the corpse-pale May be but the breath of a ghost.

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qP, lease Go Way and Let Me Sleep By HELEN W. KASSON IT WAS a room, just like any other room. It had walls and a floor and a ceiling — even a door. But no windows. In Spanish it was called la tumba; in French le tot?ibeau; and in English — the crypt. Anyway, the family was gathered — just as it would have been gathered in any other room — holding an indignation meeting. There was Great Grandfather for whom the tomb had been built. (He was the most in- dignant.) He had a long, patriarchal beard and was the first one dead and the head of the family. While he had undoubtedly had ancestors just like everybody else, no one cared about them. Gramps had founded the brewery off which his descendants lived — and nicely too! — so the family traced lineage back to him and stopped, completely satisfied. Gramps was sufficient. Then there was Great Grandmother, Gammer, little and shriveled and rather the worse for lying almost a century in the damp. And Grandpa and Grandma whose bones were not quite so old; and Mother and Dad and Aunt Pansy who had never married and was quite withered even before she died; and little Willie who had died at the age of eight and was still something of a brat. Besides, there were a couple of poor relations, in the crypt of necessity and on Heading by LEE BROWN COYE 56 Can the living haunt the dead ? After a manner of haunting?

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PLEASE GO WAY AND LET ME SLEEP n sufferance and therefore not in a position to be as indignant as the real family. And there was one stranger — a sad and irretriev- able error which, for twenty years, the Col- lins dead had been bemoaning. The name on his niche- read "Ned Col- lins” but he was not Uncle Ned. He had been Uncle Ned’s seat-mate when the train had run off the embankment and his bones had been so mixed up with Unde Ned’s that the people who sorted them out had done a bad job. He was partly Uncle Ned: the right-hand little finger bone and the left shank which didn’t, by any means, make him a genuine Collins. But he was mostly a stranger, and it hurt to know that he would lie through eternity in the sacred Collins crypt. Of course, it was not until a Collins died that he discovered the profane and sacrilegious truth. The living mourned at the grave of Uncle Ned and knew no dif- ference. BUT time, even in a crypt, knits bones to- gether and Uncle Ned’s proxy was made again of whole cloth, as it were. Often he complained of the stiff and arbitrary action of his right-hand little finger bone and his left shank and the Collins dead knew this was the real Uncle Ned’s family pride ex- tending even to his dismembered bones cry- ing for his rightful place and resenting the presence of a stranger in the midst of the Collins clan. But tonight it was not about the stranger in Uncle Ned’s grave that the indignation meeting was being held. Strangely enough all anger was directed against the sole re- maining living member of the family. His name was Ambie Collins and on earth he was known as a good and worshipful man. And again, strangely enough, it was this very goodness and worshipfulness to which the dead in the family crypt objected. "Why can’t he leave us alone?” Gramps moaned. "Come every Sunday, rain or shine, there he is tramping on our heads, pounding around to dig a hole to set his vase of flowers steady. Crying and wailing up there like a banshee!” "He means well,” Mother said. (Com- paratively new to Death she still had mem- ory of the foibles of the living. Besides, she was Ambie Collins’ mother and so retained a curious warmth of affection for him.) "It’s the custom of the living to mourn its dead.” "Custom!” Gramps snorted. "You may well accept that custom. You’re the last one dead and on the bottom tier. How can you hear him down there anyway? It’s on my head he tramples. It’s on ray coffin-top he scratches around at an hour when decent people should be sleeping. I lived a long time and I’ve been a long time dead. I need my rest!” Gammer nodded. "You’re entitled to it, and so am I. I’m on the top tier too. He pounds on me as much as anyone.” Two tears rolled down her leathery cheeks. “I’m awful tired. Pa.” Gramps inched his bones a little sideways and rattled his right hand for emphasis against the wall. “Entitled to it, I am,” he croaked. "It was promised to me. All those days I went to church — fifty-two Sundays for eighty years. Well over four thousand days I spent listening to promises of the peace and rest I was going to get after I died. And what comes of it? My only living descen- dant maliciously spends one day a week try- ing to deprive me of my eternal sleep!” "All right,” Mother said, "he disturbs you. What are you going to — ” The rest of the sentence was drowned under the sound of heavy banging. "Willie!” she screamed. “Stop pounding on that coffin. Do you want to break it?” "Yippee! I'm a ghoul!” Willie shouted. "I’m robbing graves. * Look at me! I’m the head ghoul!” "Well, stop it,” Mother said, "or I'll sick a Vampire on you.”** GRAMPS disconsolately resumed the con- versation. "I don’t know what I’m go- ing to do, but something’s got to be done. That Ambie. He’s — he’s haunting us!” "Why don’t we haunt him?” Willie sug- gested with the fresh viewpoint of one just eight. In unison the family, including the poor relatives who were in the crypt on sufferance and the usurper of Uncle Ned’s final resting place, turned admiring eyes on Willie. * Author’s note: Little boys learn an awful lot of funny stuff after they die. ** It doesn’t hurt to frighten little boys after they’re dead. You can give them all the psychoses you want. They’re not going to grow up, anyway, thank good- ness.

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WEIRD TALES 58 "That’s it,” they said, in as near unison as ten voices can make it. "That’s it,” Gramps repeated as the foun- der, the head and the backbone of the fam- ily— and, incidentally, as the first and only Collins who had ever made a living for him- self. "That’s exactly it! He’s been haunt- ing.us— now we haunt him. Show him how it feels to be pestered by someone from another world! Maybe upset his life a little.” "Not too much," Mother said quickly. "Don’t upset his life too much.” "No, not too much.” Gramps looked grim. "Only as much as he has upset our death. Perhaps we might make him feel the way it was when we were dying. Remem- ber? "When you choked and couldn’t get an- other breath and your bones were pulled .and pulled and pulled until the joints cracked. And that weight on your chest. Remember? When your ribs almost snapped and broke? And that s-q-u-e-e-z-i-n-g around your heart, that w-r-i-n-g-i-n-g, till you could almost feel it burst and break and the blood splash over whoever’s fingers it was who was doing the s-q-u-e-e-z-i-n-g. And that icy trip with the Angel of Death, with his v/ings flapping and blowing frozen air over your body. And crossing the river in all that mud and slime, with obnoxious reptiles waiting to grab you if you slipped from the boat. No, we won’t upset his life too much. Just a little. Just enough to make him know how it feels to die and how much you need rest after you’ve accomplished Death. Just enough to make him quit tram- pling on our heads and leaving those in- fernal flowers every Sunday morning. That’s all.” Gramps grinned. It wasn’t much of a grin, but you knew what he meant. IT WAS Friday night and Ambie Collins didn’t feel so hot. Charlotte had been nagging him again — -and about the same old thing: Lulu. Now, don’t get the idea there was anything wrong between Ambie and Lulu because there wasn’t. They did have a thing in common: they were both psychic. But there was nothing more. Nothing more than a delicate spiritual affinity between them ’bout which Charlotte had no right to be jealous. But this is the way it all came about. Ambie Collins was known as a good and worshipful man — -to the world. To his wife Charlotte he seemed faulty. He dropped his clothes where he stood at night, didn’t bathe quite as often as nice people should, cracked his knuckles sometimes in a most annoying way and, worst, he resented terribly any questions which he believed infringed on his personal liberty. Now, he wasn’t a rounder. Don’t think that! He spent his days in a conventional and circumspect manner clipping coupons on bonds bought with the money earned by Gramps’ brewery (long since sold) and sit- ting in the stock exchange watching other people sweat as their investments swelled or withered. It was only for half an hour during the day that he did anything Char- lotte might criticize, and that was when he left the broker’s office and went to the corner drug store for an ice cream soda, just to keep his strength up, you know. And Charlotte did criticize that. With a vengeance! For she had happened to pass the drug store one day just at four and seen Ambie half-heartedly sipping an ice cream soda, but whole heartedly devouring the luscious Lulu with his eyes. (It was near the beginning when Ambie and Lulu had just discovered their mutual preoccupation with spirits.) From then on nothing could ever make Char- lotte believe Ambie needed that chocolate ice cream soda to stay the pangs of hunger. Truthfully, Ambie didn’t. He needed Lulu to feed his soul, to stimulate his spirit, to speak with him of the realms of the Great Beyond. They both believed in Life Here- after, they both knew they were psychic, they both lived in hope of some night meeting a benevolent ghost who would, in cosmic terms, explain a few things they were still hazy about. And they were, in the very near future, going to attend a seance together. So Ambie’s days were worth the living and he resented mightily having the gaunt Charlotte interfere with them. To tell the truth, he was a little afraid of her. In a way he loved Lulu— in a very high-minded, spiritual way — but he never considered ask- ing Charlotte for a divorce. Besides, he really had no good reason to divorce her. It was only the intangibles that made them mis-

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■PLEASE GO WAY AND LET ME SLEEP 59 mated. The fact that he was psychic and she was not; that he had deeper, finer in- stincts and she was about as spiritual as a kitchen pot. "If Charlotte were to die — ” The thought slipped into Ambie’s mind sometimes in the dead of night when, he was sure, even God was too tired to listen. Then he’d be free to pursue his out-worldly interests with Lulu and life would be worth living both by day and night. Who knows? Perhaps with free, untrammeled minds, he and Lulu might be able to raise a ghost. THINGS were resting exactly at this point the Friday night Ambie came home tired and worn from a day of coupon clipping. He had had a chocolate soda and a frosted — ■ Lulu had been unusually interesting that afternoon. So, though his mind was light and buoyant and his soul inspired, he had a heavy weight in his stomach and was in no mood for dinner. Charlotte saw that im- mediately from the way he picked at his food and, as usual, started picking at him. (It was maid’s day out. She had cooked dinner herself and was terribly put out at the thought that Ambie might not do justice to it. And all because of that — that nothing! - — that piece of fluff! — behind the drugstore soda fountain.) "I suppose you had a chocolate soda this afternoon,” she said acidly. "I did.” "I suppose you were hungry.” "I was.” "So hungry that you drank the soda in complete silence and never raised your eyes from the glass.” Ambie raised his eyes now from the mess of food on his plate. "No,” he said coolly, "I didn’t drink it in silence. Why do you ask?” Charlotte’s cheekbones reddened. This was worse than she suspected. Ambie had never before admitted he had spoken to the luscious womanly bit behind the counter. "I ask,” she said hotly, "because I have always known there was something under- handed about you. I have always known you were a liar and an adulterer — and that you left the broker’s office every after- noon for something besides an ice-cream soda.” Ambie threw down his napkin. “You are the liar,” he said. "You beast!” Charlotte’s little black eyes flashed. "You monster! You betrayer of women! Don’t think it will get you any- where. I’ll never divorce you. Never!” Ambie had always suspected that. Prob- ably that’s why he had never asked. But now that she had brought up the subject he thought he had better plumb it further. "I’m a good man,” he said. (Some slight ac- quaintance had told him that once. Someone who didn’t know of the double life he was leading between Luiu and Charlotte, who knew only of his Sunday pilgrimages to the Collins’ crypt.) "But if you think that , prob- ably it would be better if we went separate ways.” He cracked his thumb knuckle de- cisively. Ignoring the knuckle-crack, Charlotte changed tactics. She knew she’d never get another man if she lost Ambie — not with her bony frame and close-set eyes. "Ambie!” She burst into tears. "How can you! How can you be so cool about breaking up out marriage, our life, our love?” It was the word "love” that did it— turned Ambie from a mouse into a lion. The word was somehow an anacronism on Charlotte’s thin lips. "Love!” he sneered. "You don’t know what the word means. You’re just a mass of flesh and bones and — and a stomach! You haven’t anything — not anything. You’re no deeper than a — than a — sirloin steak!” "And what has that — that other thing got? That piece of nothing at the drugstore — what has she got, I’d like to know?” Ambie smiled, a secret smile. His voice was soft, nostalgic, when he spoke. "There are things,” he murmured, "of which you have no conception. There are other worlds — worlds of the spirit, of the mind, of the soul. There is another life to which we shall all go, from, which we have all come. The dead walk and speak with the living; the living sleep and speak with the dead.” Charlotte stared as wide-eyed as the close- set slits could make it. This side of Ambie she had never encountered before. She knew knuckle-cracking, ndn bathing, coupon clip- ping Ambie, but not the spirit, the psychic Ambie. Was he mad? Had his brain been harboring such thoughts all these years — •

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60 WEIRD TALES or had it, this moment, snapped because of her discovery of his perfidy with Lulu? "There are ghosts,” Ambie continued, un- seen spirits who dwell constantly with the living. Who knows? Perhaps there is one here now — ” He stopped abruptly, gasping and gagging. There was certainly nothing to keep him from speaking, but somehow he couldn’t get words out though Charlotte could tell from his popping eyes that he was trying hard enough. She poured a glass of water and thrust it at him. He got it to within half an inch of his lips but it stopped there. Something seemed to be in the way. But what? "Drink it,” Charlotte advised. "Glub!” Ambie said. "What’s the matter with you?” Charlotte screamed? "Tell her,” Gramps said, and removed his hand from Ambie’s lips. For it was Gramps, arrived just in time to verify Ambie’s statement about unseen spirits and just too late to catch the first part of the conversation about Lulu. Ambie whirled. "Gramps!” he shouted. "Is it really you?” "Is it really who?” Charlotte asked. (You see Ambie, being psychic, could see Gramps; but Charlotte, being nothing but a sirloin steak, couldn’t.) "It’s Gramps, my great grandfather, come back from the Other World. Oh, won- derful! Wonderful! Wait till I tell Lulu.” In his excitement, Ambie forgot that the Other Woman should never be mentioned before one’s wife. "There, there, Ambie,” Charlotte said in a frightened voice. "Maybe you’d better sit down.” "Maybe I had,” Ambie said weakly. He bent in the right places, but the chair was gone before the right place reached it. Gramps had whisked it away. Ambie landed, in the wrong place, on the floor with a dull thud. Then again he seemed to strangle. With nothing visible before his lips, yet he desper- ately struggled to speak with no results. Nothing human sounding, anyway. "Kub ih ow,” he gargled, "Ah, Am.” Which translated meant, "Cut out. Stop, Gramps!” But Charlotte couldn’t understand. She saw only a maniac, an epileptic, perhaps, writhing on the Boor, kicking its legs and fighting against — absolutely nothing! (Be- ing a sirloin steak is decidedly disadvan- tageous at times.) FINALLY Ambie was on his feet and again in command of his tongue. He turned his back on Charlotte and faced Gramps. "Well!” he said. "Now that your little joke is over I’m certainly glad to see you. And looking so well, too.” (Gramps did look well, considering. Gammer had combed some of the grave mold out of his beard and his burial suit, having been made before the war — the Civil War, of course — when materials were really good, had lasted surprisingly well.) "It’s a wonder if I am,” Gramps said sul- lenly. "I certainly don’t get any rest.” "I suppose things are busy there — where you are.” "Busier’n they should be,” Gramps said meaningly. Charlotte was listening flabbergasted. Be- ing unpsychic she could hear only Ambie’s half of the conversation. "To . . . whom . . . are . . . you . . . speaking?” she asked peremptorily. Ambie jumped as if he had been pinched. He had. Gramps chuckled maliciously. "That ought to teach you,” Gramps said. "Teach me what?” "How it feels to be haunted — to be de- prived of rest.” For a moment Ambie thought Gramps was resentful of his and Lulu’s interest in the Great Beyond, but on second thought he was sure that couldn’t be it and decided to ignore the matter. "Look, Gramps,” he said, "quit talking in riddles. How did you get here? Was it hard breaking through?” "I’m not here,” Gramps said. "It would take a Georgia chain gang to break through that layer of stone. Double locks on the door, too,” he added petulantly. "You sure didn’t take any chances I’d escape when you built that crypt.” "But you are here,” Ambie said. "I see you.” Gramps looked annoyed. "I am not. I’m still there, lying in my coffin!” "But Gramps — ” "Listen, Ambie. Bid you ever read Freud on Hallucinations?”

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PLEASE GO WAY AND LET ME SLEEP 61 "Yes, but — ” "Well, there you have it!” Ambie took a deep breath. "But you couldn’t have read Freud. You died before he was translated.” "Didn’t say I did,” Cramps growled. "But you did. That’s all that’s necessary.” "You mean,” Ambie said slowly, "that you’re a hallucination, not a ghost?” "Are they different?” Gramps asked dis- interestedly. "I donno. You read the book. You ought to know.” Charlotte refused to be ignored longer. "Ambie,” she screamed “Stop talking to yourself.” At that moment the doorbell rang. Char- lotte was afraid to leave Ambie alone to answer it and Ambie was too busy staring incredulously at Charlotte to hear it, so Gramps went. "Do you mean you can’t see Gramps?” Ambie asked unbelievingly of his wife. "Of course not. And neither can you!” "Nor hear him?” Ambie persisted. "I’ve heard nothing all evening but your insane mumblings.” "Wheee!” Ambie shrilled. "That means I really am psychic. Lulu always said so.” At a look from Charlotte he turned to find the minister, pale and shaken, leaning against the wall and mopping his forehead. ” Who opened the front door?” the min- ister whispered. “I did,” Gramps said. The minister being nothing but a sirloin steak with a spiritual calling hadn’t been able to see Gramps at the door and wasn’t able to hear him now. Ambie saw that he was waiting for an answer. "I did,” Ambie said. "But— but — you were in here.” "A form of magic,” Ambie said airily. “My great grandfather taught me. The body is quicker than the eye and all, that stuff, you know. Sit down, reverend. THE reverend sat. On the floor, just the way Ambie had a few moments before. (Gramps, being an old guy, didn’t know many new tricks. It is doubtful whether the hot foot had been in vogue during his life- time. So to Gramps the whisking away of a chair just as a bottom descended was still the height of humor.) Not only that, Gramps was thinking of all those Sundays he’d spent in church listening to promises of eternal rest, and Gramps was remembering just how early Ambie wak- ened him every Sunday morning. When he recognized the back-side-to collar of the reverend he decided to get even for at least one of those Sundays. Charlotte helped the reverend to his feet while Ambie held the chair, firmly. "That’s enough, Gramps,” Ambie said. "Play your jokes on me, if you must. Leave our guests — ” He stopped and gagged. Gramps was taking him at his word. Suddenly there was the sound of a loud slap. "Ambie! Don’t crack your knuckles," Charlotte said. Ambie had put one hand to his cheek. When he removed it there were the marks of five bony fingers spreading out from his ear. "Gramps,” he pleaded, "stop. I don’t know what I ever did to”- — The sentence wasn’t finished. Neither was Gramps. Am- bie was struggling to speak again. The reverend fastened his eyes on Ambie and drew back. "What is it, Mr. Collins? Are you ill?” AMBIE decided not to attempt speech. He shook his head and walked toward the far side of the room. Midway his feet got en- tangled and he started doing something that looked like Shuffling Off to Buffalo, except that he wasn’t shuffling off to any place. He was 'merely standing in one spot and trip- ping over nothing. The carpet was perfectly flat and unwrinkled, his shoelaces were tied, his socks were caught up tight with garters — to the naked eye there was absolutely nothing in the world to impede his progress. Still, his progress was impeded. “Ouch,” he yelled. "Take it away! What is it?” "Barbed wire,” Gramps chuckled. "The builders left it in the crypt. I always thought it might come in handy.” "Well, take it back there. And get back there yourself.” "I am there,” Gramps said. "So’s the barbed wire. Remember, Freud on Halluci- nations— ” "Get out!” Ambie screamed.

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62 WEIRD TALES "Really, Mr. Collins,” the reverend said. "To whom are you speaking?” Charlotte’s eyes were getting more and more frightened, but the germ of a thought was growing behind them. "Ambie,” she said gently, "there’s no one here but us. Come. Sit down and talk to the reverend while I mix up some lemonade.” Ambie came. And sat. But he couldn’t talk. Whenever he got ready to, Gramps slapped an invisible hand over his lips and Ambie couldn’t talk. The reverend did the best he could with a one-sided conversation. He exhausted the weather and the parish house and finally got around to what he had come for — collecting money to build an ad- dition to the church, from which money, incidentally, he expected to take a substan- tial squeeze. When he asked Ambie point- blank for a donation Gramps thoughtfully removed his hand from Ambie’s mouth long enough to allow him to say, "Yes.” The reverend got out a pledge and Ambie signed it — for two hundred dollars. That meant about twenty for the reverend’s pri- vate purse, which was about all he could ex- pect from one parishioner, so he got up and left. He said he didn’t believe he cared for any lemonade after all; it upset his diges- tion. Charlotte wasn’t making it anyway. She was telephoning to her lawyer. IT WAS Sunday morning in the crypt and everything was quiet. Until nine. Then there was the clatter of footsteps overhead and the sound of digging. A little later there was a heavy bump as the vase of flowers found its resting place. Then Ambie started pacing up and down and meditating aloud on the virtues of the departed. "My mother,” he said, "and my dad. And my dear grandfather and grandmother and Gramps — who made all that money. And Gammer — she always carried pepper- mint drops for me — and Uncle Ned who used to dandle me on his knee.” He went down the roster — even including the poor relatives who were in the crypt of necessity and on sufferance and little Willie whom he had always loathed — until finally Gramps could stand it no longer. "Get away from there, you idiot,” he shouted. "Go away! Lemme sleep!” But somehow, today, Ambie couldn’t hear him. Maybe Ambie’s hallucinatory powers were weaker, maybe Gramps’ frail voice was not strong enough to penetrate the layer of earth and stone which separated them, to say nothing of the worlds between, or may- be Ambie’s psychic deafness was due to the fact that though he mourned verbally and loudly his mind was completely centered on Lulu — and not in a spiritual way at all! So, obvious of Gramps’ irritation, Ambie continued his audible mourning. For this Sunday he was inordinately grateful to Gramps. You see, Charlotte had left his bed and board the Friday night of the haunting and already suit for divorce was in progress. Charlotte had weighed the facts and decided no man at all was better than a crazy man. Then too, Ambie’s being crazy was suffi- cient explanation of why he preferred Lulu to her. So her pride was saved and she’d be able to live nicely on her alimony with no knuckle-cracking to distress her. So Ambie was overcome with love and gratitude for Gramps who had made Char- lotte want to divorce him. And he wailed. And Gramps shouted. And Gammer said she was getting an awful headache from all the noise and what did they mean when they said, "Quiet as the Dead?” Finally little Willie woke up and jumped out of his coffin and started to play Lampire Bat on Unde Ned’s proxy. Uncle Ned’s proxy bat- ted him away and cursed the day the people got his bones mixed with Unde Ned’s and laid him here. And Aunt Pansy, the spin- ster, wailed, "If I’d only married that man — even if he wasn’t good enough for me — maybe I’d have been buried in his family crypt instead of here. Maybe I’d have gotten a little of that eternal rest I was promised.” The poor relatives didn’t say anything be- cause, after all, they were in the crypt on sufferance, but what they thought was enough to raise the whole dan of Collins dead. But Ambie went on mourning — from nine to twelve — and then put on his black hat and got into his car and drove over to the drugstore. He had a date with Lulu to go to a seance, but he thought they’d call it off and just park on the lake shore instead.

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UPERSTIflONS Sc Elmo's FIRE APPEARS AS A TIP OF LIGHT ON THE MASTS OF SHIPS* UNLIKE OTHER MANI- FESTATIONS OF ELECTRICAL FORCES IN NATURE. THIS FIRE DOES NOT CAUSE ANY INJURY TO MEN OR DAMAGE TO PROPERTY eurrr /s coAis/oggeo' AN /£.£. OMSH SY ■ 3A/I.OXS AN&, TFEFEFCRB, MC/CW FEARED Q In the belief that they were making ADEQUATE STORE FOR NEEDS IN THE OTHER WORLD, THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS FURNISHED THEIR TOMBS WITH MODELS AND PICTURES OF THINGS USED IN THEIR EVERYDAY LIVES. Twev EVEN INCLUDED MODELS OF SERVANTS TO /Nsms T&mf SELVES OF MOT’S COMFORT /A/ TW£/% NEW STATE OF SE/A/GpT

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lannah Sometimes love is good; sometimes it is possessive, destructive, wholly evil I WAS never one to be hasty in my judg- ment of others, but I do think that Mrs. Stewart might have paid a little more attention to Maurice, she might have given him the kind of affection he needed. Now that everything is over, there can be no harm in setting down what I know about what happened at that house. Mr. Stewart could not have done any more than he did; he had his work, and sometimes he came out By STEPHEN GRENDON Heading by A. B. TILBURNE 64

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'ALANNAH 6f, from the city pretty tired. Mrs. Stewart was the one. She was that kind of woman — lived for herself too much, and not enough for others. I don’t say that a person shouldn’t live for himself — but not alone that. My grandmother used to say that it is much better and richer to love than to be loved. I thought of that often about Mrs. Stewart; I always felt that she never knew what it was to love. Yet I wouldn’t want to say that she didn’t love her son; nobody knows what love is, and love is a great many things to different people. Sometimes love is the most enriching thing in the world, and sometimes it is not; sometimes it is good and wholesome, and sometimes it is posses- sive and destructive and evil. Sometimes it is strong enough to live after death, and if love lives after it, then surely hunger and terror and all the emotions of man, made strong enough and great enough, live after- ward, too. The Stewarts had taken the house in the Vermont hills when I joined them. That is, they had moved in for that summer, and they had been there for almost a month when I answered their advertisement for a governess. A great many women simply did not want to take positions so far from the city, which meant, really, that they wanted to be in the city, because the Stewart house was only about twelve miles from the near- est city, where Mr. Stewart had his law offices, and from which he came home al- most every night to work over his briefs. Mrs. Stewart was not the type of woman I would have thought satisfied with such a place; she was one of those women who, be- cause they think always of themselves, are apt to get very lonely if there is not someone before whom they can perform all their little vanities. I know it sounds as if I were prejudiced against Mrs. Stewart, but I do not think I was. It’s only that if she had been a differ- ent kind of person, I don’t think anything would have happened— at least, things would not have happened as they did there. I ought to say that the very first time I saw the house, I had the feeling that there was something wrong about it. I know people will say, "Isn’t that just like a woman!” but it is true, just the same. After I got to know Mrs. Stewart I just naturally thought that she was what was wrong about the house. That was a mistake, I know now. Some- times I wonder if the house was not respon- sible for some of the things Mrs. Stewart did — or rather, didn’t do. I really don’t have any prejudice against her, poor woman; she is what she is, just as I am what I am, and Mr. Stewart, is what he is, and Maurice. . . . THE house was really a beautiful house.. It was old, a low two-story stone house, with a charming roof on which the moss grew green. The stone was yellow, but wet — actually wet outside; that I -thought was due to the brook that flowed past outside, for there was a brook, a real Vermont brook, and if you’ve ever seen those crystal streams, with their green-blue water, you will know what I mean. The brook came flowing down from the hills, and right in the center of the grounds around the house, though a little off side, beyond the north end and so behind the house, its former owmer had built a deep pool, with a fine brick and stone rim curving in an arc toward the brook from both banks; the brook flowed in one end and out the other. And there were trees all along the brook, so that the pool was always shadowed and dark, and one would have thought that there would be fish in plenty there, but, strangely enough, there were fish above thf pool in the brook, lying under the grassy banks, and there were fish below, but there was not a fish or a frog or even a water spider in the pool, though lilies grew there, and their green leaves and yellow flowers made the water seem all the blacker, and there was a curious illusion of bottomless- ness about it when you looked into the water. They told me — that is, Mr. Stewart, who interviewed me — that Maurice was a "prob- lem” child, and I came prepared to deal with something like a thoroughly spoiled youngster. Maurice was then five, or a little older, and he was a singularly beautiful child, with his grave blue eyes, which could sometimes be as merry as the blue water of the brook racing over the sunlit sand and the rocks in its course, and curly blond hair, and a sensitive, full-lipped mouth; his skin was fair, with a good color, and he had an innate understanding of neatness. All that first day I kept waiting for him to explode into mis- chief, but he did nothing of the sort; he was quiet, a little shy, he looked into books — be

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66 WEIRD TALES was precocious for his age, they told me — and he behaved very well. I thought it would come the next day, but it did not, and finally, somewhat mystified, I went to Mrs. Stewart and asked her bluntly in what way Maurice was a "problem” child. Mrs. Stewart was a dark-eyed, thin-faced woman. She seemed to be always a little re- mote from the present, but she was very clearly a most passionate type of woman, for she held her husband absolutely, and many times he deferred his better judgment to hers, though he never condoned error. She carried on a great deal of correspondence, and telephoned friends in the city all day long, and what I held and still hold against her was that she never seemed to find much time for Maurice, even if he was her son. When I asked her, she seemed to be an- noyed at once, just as if she should not have had the duty of telling me. “Oh, didn’t Wayne tell you?” "No, Madam, he did not. I expected a lively, mischievous lad, but I have not found Maurice at all mischievous.” "No, if it were only mischief!” she sighed. “But it is something much worse — I suppose the best way it is to tell you that he is endowed with an overabundance of imagination.” I said nothing. “It is quite distressing for us, but he has fallen into the habit of telling the most bare- faced lies, and Mr. Stewart and I feel that he must be broken of it. It is embarrassing for us all to hear him speak before those of our friends who week-end with us, and the worst of it all is that there is no explanation for it.” “What kind of lies, if I may ask?” She waved one hand about half -vaguely, half in a gesture of dismissal. “Oh, all kinds of lies, Miss Kerlsen.” I must admit that I have never liked peo- ple who tell lies, though one expects a cer- tain amount of it in children. It was a shock to me to hear that Maurice was addicted to lying; somehow, we are always prone to as- sociate goodness and all the virtues with beauty, especially in children; and I resolved that I would do all in my power to break Maurice of prevaricating. The next day I even went so far as to test him. I saw him break a little dish in the kitchen, and care- fully pick up the pieces to discard them in the ash-can; so I asked him quite casually about an hour later what had become of the little dish, as if I wanted to use it for some- thing. “I broke it, Miss Kerlsen,” he said can- didly. THAT puzzled me. I reasoned that if he were the bare-faced liar his mother said he was, he would certainly have, lied about the dish; he did not know I had seen him. It was very mystifying, and it grew more so as the days slipped by. Until the sixth day — that was Saturday, for I came on the Mon- day of that week. That day Maurice came over to where I was resting on the low veranda on the south side of the house and said that Alannah wanted to see me. Though I had never seen Maurice with a playmate, I assumed that Alannah was someone from one of the farms nearby. “Bring her here,” I said. "Oh, no. You’ve got to go to her,” an- swered Maurice, and held out his hand con- fidently. "Very well,” I said, laughing, and took his hand. He led me around the house quite proudly. I thought his playmate would be out in back, that is, on the up-slope of the hill, but there was no one there. Neverthe- less, Maurice led the way straight across the yard; I looked all around quickly, but I could see no one. Then we came to the pool, where Maurice was accustomed to spend long hours dreaming, and Maurice pulled at my hand, and sat down, indicating that I was to sit down, too. "But where is she?” I asked. “Do not say anything, please, Miss Kerl- sen.” His fair face was flushed with excitement, and I thought his pulse had quickened a little. I put up my hand to -touch his fore- head, to discover whether he had a fever, but I had barely touched his skin before the most extraordinary thing happened. I felt as if my hand had been brushed aside. The impression was only momentary, it is true, and at the same time Maurice leaned away a little to look into the water; so that in a few seconds I decided that the illusion had been caused by the boy’s movement. I looked around to where the woods came down at the far end of the lawn, half-expecting to

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ALANNAH 67 see a little girl come running out; but there was no sign of anyone. Maurice continued to gaze into the pool, with a little smile on his lips. His eyes, though, were somewhat anxious. Suddenly, without a word, he stood up, offered me his hand, and hurried me back to the veranda. He smiled quickly at me, and then hastened back around the house. I was astonished by his action, and took the trouble to walk out from the veranda until I could look back into the lawn there to see where he had gone. Just as I suspected, he was sitting on the rim of the pool once more, looking into that dark water, reaching down with one hand. That evening, as I stood beside his bed, I asked him, "And where was your Alannah this afternoon, Maurice?” "You didn’t see her,” he answered in a curiously flat tone of voice, as if he were disappointed. "No, I didn’t,” I answered. "How does she look?” "Oh, she’s pretty.” "Is she as pretty as Mother?” "Yes.” "Where does she live?” "In the pool.” SO AT last I understood what the Stew- arts meant by saying that Maurice was a "problem” child, that he told bare-faced lies. It was not true that he told lies of all kinds; of that I was certain. He had prob- ably told his parents about Alannah, and they had not understood that a sensitive, imaginative child lives in a world of make- believe, and, lacking companions in the flesh, is very apt to conjure up imaginary companions. At- the moment I did not say anything; I only smiled at Maurice, but I was instantly resentful that his parents should not have taken a little more trouble to find out that what Maurice needed more than anything else was companionship. There was no one — only his mother, the cook, an old gardener who came over from a nearby farm, and myself, with his father in the evenings, all far older than the boy — no one his own age. And since there was no likelihood of there being anyone his own age here for the summer, I knew that I would have to enter into his play-world with him as much as possible. I went right down to where Mr. and Mrs. Stewart sat, in a screened-off porch on the west side of the living room, and asked them whether the boy’s imagination was the thing that had caused them to think of him as a problem child. "It is lies,” said Mrs. Stewart stubbornly. "I would not call them lies,” I answered, just as stubbornly. "The boy is just lonely, and he makes up these things.” Mr. Stewart looked up from his papers and observed that it was surely not a healthy sign. He seemed genuinely concerned. "I don’t know what you mean by healthy, but it’s certainly normal enough.” "No, no it is not,” said Mrs. Stewart. "That is just not my opinion alone, Mrs. Stewart,” I replied. "I don’t care whose opinion it is. Maurice has got to be stopped from telling those — ■ those tall tales or whatever you want to call them.” Her eyes flashed at me. "We are depending on you to do what you can.” "I shall do what I can, but I think it is the worst thing in the world to treat the boy as if he were a liar. I will not do that.” "We expect you to do things in your way, Miss Kerlsen,” said Mr. Stewart. The issue, you see, was not cleanly forced. It never was; Mrs. Stewart remained emo- tional about it, and annoyed; Mr. Stewart' was too far from its daily manifestations, obviously. And I — well, I suppose you might say that if I had a more common- sense attitude, I lacked imagination in al- most the same proportion as Maurice had an overabundance of it. I suppose if I had had a little more of it, what happened would not have had to happen. As I was coming up the stairs consider- ably later that night, I saw Maurice coming down the hall. The hour was almost mid- night, though it was a clear night, with a moon shining, and I wondered what he was doing up at that hour. He could have got himself a drink in the bathrooom next to his room; so it was not that. I concealed myself and watched him go by. He went down and out of the house, and I went after him, not making a sound. JTE WENT right over to the pool and JLJL crouched down on the rim in his white nightgown, and I heard his whispered voice calling, "Alannah! Alannah!” in hushed

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68 .WEIRD TALES tones. And then suddenly a little rippling came on the water, a vapor that was not there before. How it startled me! I felt chilled at the sight of it, but it was gone again just as quickly as it had come; there was nothing there, and I began to think my eyes had played a trick on me when Mau- rice came along with his hand held out and up, just as if he were holding someone’s hand, the hand of an older person, and he kept looking up from time to time, as if he were listening to someone walking at his side. I cannot describe my feelings as I saw that. It was uncanny. I saw him quite dearly in the moonlight, but there was abso- lutely nothing else moving across the lawn — only that curly-headed lad in his white nightgown. But when he went past me, where I stood in the shadow of an old tree near the house, I felt his passage as if a cold wind had brushed me, and once again that feeling of unutterable chill, and something of terrible emotional intensity rose up and seemed to cling to me, like something alive; so that I was frightened, almost terrified, by something I could not see or hear, some- thing less tangible than the wind. That feel- ing lingered until after Maurice had gone into the house, and it was some moments before I could bring myself to follow him. I WENT straight to the stairs — he had to go upstairs to his bed— and the moment 1 put my hand on the stair-rail, I withdrew it as if I had touched ice. I might as well have done so, for the rail was wet, wet and cold, oh, how cold! And the moment I touched it, I felt the most awful loneliness I ever knew, I felt the most dreadful solitude, as if I were isolated in a place far, far from any human touch or voice, and I felt invaded by the most tearing longing, the most moving de- sire for someone to hold close to me, some- one to possess, to love! It was awful! I wrenched my hand away and fell bade against the wall, shaking and trembling. I put on the light, and, though I would not touch the stair-rail again, I saw the wet gleaming on it all the way up, and I fol- lowed it; I saw the wet along the hall and the wall and I saw it on the knob of the door to Maurice’s room. I did not want to touch it again, but I had to know that he was all right. So I leaned forward, bracing myself, and quickly opened the door. The instant I touched the wetness, I felt it again — oh, the most heart-rending de- spair, the most pitiful agony, the most utter desolation!. Oh, the terrible wanting for someone, someone near, someone to love and adore, someone to belong to and to be- long to me! I clung to the door and looked in; but he was there, safe in his bed; and I pulled the door shut and drew away from it, shuddering and gasping, for such a tear- ing emotion I had never known, such a cold isolation of the spirit, such a dread and ter- ror and emptiness. It was just as if all the sorrows and griefs of a lifetime had come to life anew and taken away all the memories of compensating pleasures, as if someone were forever doomed to live out his years far from his kind — oh, it is impossible to describe it, it was terrible! Whatever they may say of me, I am not a coward. I knew then that there was some- thing horribly wrong about the house. De- spite the c'rying out of every instinct against it, I forced myself to go back downstairs, back out across the lawn to the pool. I sat down on the rim, and looked into that black water, where now the moonlight lay like silver, and I could see my face there looking up at me out of that dark, moonlit water, spectrally. It was beautiful there, with the moonlight all around, and the brook talking above and below the pool, and occasionally the sound of a fish splashing. I sat there looking into the pool for five minutes, ten minutes — I do not know what I expected to see there. Certainly it was not what I saw just as I got up to go — that other thin face, a woman's face, with dark where her eyes should have been, and light hair flowing wetly down beside her head, so sharp and strong that I thought it was someone look- ing over my shoulder into the water, and turned, but there was no one there, no one at all. And then there was nothing in the water either, nothing but my own face look- ing down. But there was something inside me again — once more that terrible loneli- ness, that poignant longing, that incredible, hurtful wanting, that agonized desolation which shook me and tore me and sent me staggering away from that pool and brought me to my knees in tears, that strong it was, that terrible and moving.

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ALANNAH 69 I fled to the house and was glad to be in my room, myself once more, save for the trembling and the pity I felt for whatever it was in such desperation out there. I THINK it was two days later that I found the letter. It was stuck in an old album, put into where a photograph should have been, and left in a closet off my room. It was ten years old, in a man’s handwriting, and it was addressed to Mrs. Luella Withers. It was not a nice letter. Lu Alannah: I have tried all week to talk myself into coming back and starting over, but it’s no use. I'm too weak to do it, I never was much on the noble side of things anyway. So I’ve taken passage on a tramp steamer for Singapore and the Malay States, which makes it easy for you to get a divorce on grounds of desertion. I want you to have the house; it is really yours, you planned it and all. I am sorry there never was a youngster to share it with us for the*-little while we were there to- gether. It was rotten luck, but it was our I put it back where I found it and went down to talk to Mrs. Stewart. I asked her who had lived in this house before. "A Mrs. Luella Withers, Miss Kerlsen.” "What kind of woman was she?” She shrugged. "I have no idea. She’s dead, of course. The house belongs to some relative and we leased it through an agent.” She knew nothing at all about Mrs. With- ers. I was half of a mind to point out to her that it was a curious coincidence to discover that Mr. Withers had called his wdfe by the same pet name that Maurice called his friend. I should not have asked Mrs. Stew- art at ail; she said she thought it was not "proper” to inquire into the habits and the life of the previous tenant of the house. I should have talked to someone else right away. As it was, it was three days after that before I managed to take a few hours one afternoon while Maurice was asleep to walk down the country road and pay a visit to one of the neighbors. Mrs. Warren was a farmer’s wife, well along in years, but still a big, strong woman. She was canning strawberries that day, and I sat in the kitchen with her, after telling her who I was. Like most country people, once they have no reason to be suspicious of you, she was very friendly with an ease of man- ner that made it very pleasant to talk to her. She took me for just what I was, and only asked about the Stewarts in the most casual way, not prying at all, but just want- ing to know something about her neighbors, so that it was easy for me, at last, to come around to the subject of Mrs. Luella Withers. "Oh, yes, I knew her,” said Mrs. War- ren. "Poor, poor woman!” She shook her head, and an expression of sympathy ap- peared in her warm brown eyes. "Was she unhappy here?” "Unhappy’s not in it. She was terrible lonesome. I never saw a woman — nor a man, either — that lonesome. She would set and eat her heart out. Her husband got lost on a steamer somewhere. Nobody knows what made him up and take the trip in the first place. They didn’t have any children; so she was left alone. And how she wanted’ a child! I don’t know what it was, but I think she was the one couldn’t have children. Anyway, if a body took a boy or a girl up along with her visiting there, she never wanted the child to leave, she used to try to keep him there or coax him back — why, it was something awful the way she carried on! They said the lone- someness just went to her head. It made her thin and hungry-looking, and I reckon in the end it would have killed her.” "She is dead, then?” "Oh, yes. Couldn’t stand it any more. I guess he left her the house, but there wasn’t much money; she tried to sell it, but she couldn’t; and she couldn’t go any- where else — no money, you see — so one fine day she up and drowned herself.” "In the pool,” 1 said almost involuntarily. "Yes. They say it's deeper than a body thinks.” It gave me a queer helpless feeling to lis- ten to Mrs. Warren tell about Mrs. With- ers. "Tell me,” I said at last, "did you ever hear her called Alannah?" "That was his name for her. I reckon it’s a sweetening name. It’s not a name that’s in the books, but he would say it the way a man would talk to his sweetheart, and

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70 WEIRD TALES she would smile and her eyes would shine — so I reckon that’s what it was.” AFTER that, I felt that the best thing for Maurice would be to get him away from there. I thought it all over that night, and the next morning, before Mrs. Stewart left, I went downstairs and talked to them both at the breakfast table. Maurice was still asleep. I said that I had been thinking everything over, and I felt that Maurice was not lying at all, that his loneliness was re- sponsible for his queer fancies. Perhaps I should have said that I was not sure they were fancies, but I knew that if I had, they would have discounted everything I recom- mended; so I could not; I had to hold back part of the truth. They w'ere somewhat put out, but I convinced them. Then I said, "If I may make a further suggestion, I would most strongly recom- mend that Maurice be not told of your in- tention to leave until it is time to go, or else he may brood about it.” "That is going too far,” said Mrs. Stew- art. "I will not have the boy growing up a mollycoddle. He will have to karn now that life never gives anybody his way all the time.” I said that the principle was a sound one, but in this case, I felt its application would work adversely, and I begged them to recon- sider, with such earnestness that Mr. Stew- art said finally they would think it over, and there the matter rested — until the day before they left. Mrs. Stewart had her way after all. True, they compromised. Mr. Stewart thought I was right, but Mrs. Stewart thought she was right; so they compromised by not tell- ing Maurice until the morning of the day before they planned to return to town, and then they told him. We were all sitting at the table that morn- ing, and when they told him, I saw Ins face; he went all white, and one hand clenched tightly around his fork. “I’m not going,” he said in a iow voice. "What was that?” asked Mrs. Stewart. "I’m not going,” he said again. "I don’t think you need more than a day to say goodbye to your friend.” said Mrs. Stewart coldly. Mr. Stewart coughed. Maurice put down his fork precisely and sat back. "Eat your breakfast, Maurice,” said Mrs. Stewart warningly. “I’m not hungry.” “Eat.” "I won’t. Mrs. Stewart looked up with flashing eyes. "You see, first it is lies and then it is disobedience,” she said to no one in par- ticular. "It goes from bad to worse, and if he is this way now, what will he be in a few years from now?” Maurice got up and went away from the table. "Come back here!” cried Mrs. Stewart in a voice that was shrill with anger. Maurice never said a word but simply walked out of the room. Mrs. Stewart would have got up and gone after him, but he held her back. He said brusquely that telling Maurice had been a shock, and it was better to let it work itself out of him without any unnecessary pres- sure. I was grateful for that, and Mrs. Stewart, after brooding about Maurice’s be- havior for a few minutes, resumed her breakfast and grew quite cheerful again, as if she had forgotten the entire incident. But I did not forget it. I watched Mau- rice carefully all that day, and I watched him especially at the pool. I v/as short with his lessons that day because I knew he would want to go around and bid his favorite haunts goodbye. He did not say very much, but I could see that he had something on his mind. People often think, particularly adults who have grown far away from their own childhood, that a child’s world is de- pendent upon the world of the adults; but this v/as never so and will never be true, for a child always lives in his own world, no matter what his circumstances, and a sen- sitive child never completely forgets that world in his adulthood. I WAS glad when Maurice fell asleep that night. He had spent a long time at the pool during the late afternoon, and I felt sure that he had been bidding Alannah goodbye; so I asked him gently that evening whether he had. "Yes. She doesn’t want me to go, and I don’t want to go. Miss Kerlsen, I like her better than Mum. Is that wrong?”

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V” ALANNAH "I don’t think so if you keep it your secret.” It was a difficult question to answer. "Alannah loves me.” "Yes,” I said, with a catch in my throat. ‘ Yes, I’m sure she does. But you can come back some time and see her again.” He looked at me gravely and smiled. "They always tell me I’m lying when I talk about Alannah, but you don’t, Miss Kerl- sen.” "I believe you, Maurice,” I said. "Thank you,” he answered. I DID not leave him until he had fallen asleep. And then I sat up until one o’clock in the morning. As it turned out, I did not sit up long enough. I was very tired, for I had helped with the packing, and I fell asleep. It was about two o’clock when I awoke, and the waning moon had just reached about tree- height in the sky. I do not know what woke me, unless it was the movement of something before my eyes, closed as they were; that is an experience far more usual than is commonly supposed. I had fallen asleep before the window that looked down to the lawn and the brook; the pool lay within easy sight, and the object which had crossed before my eyes was Maurice in his nightgown on his way to the pool. *71 I was fully awake on the instant. I came out of my chair to my knees at the window and called to him. "Maurice! Maurice! Come back!” But he did not turn. He went straight over to the pool and he sat down on the rim of it, and I heard his voice, low and sooth- ing, as if he were comforting someone, and then I saw that vapor again, like a long, white woman’s arm come up out of the water and take his hand and pull him into the pool. I screamed, stumbled to my feet, and ran out of the room as fast as I could — down the stairs and across the lawn. But I was too late. Maurice had gone under and he did not come up again until he had drowned. Even while the others came running from the house, there was something else. While I knelt there at that dark pool I felt some- thing come out of it and go past me toward the stone house behind, and I saw the grass move in the moonlight as if two people walked there. And what I felt was not cold, it was not any more that terrible, despairing loneliness — no, it was warm and fulfilling, ineffably beautiful, as if the heart and soul of love itself had become briefly, briefly tangible there and touched me in passing by.

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Heading by BORIS DOLGOV WELL, first of all there was the long trip, and the dust poking up inside her thin nostrils, and Walter, her Oklahoma husband, swaying his lean carcass in their model-T Ford, so sure of himself it made her want to spit; then they got into this big brick town that was strange as old sin, and hunted up a land- lord. The landlord took them to a small room and unlocked the door. There in the middle of the simple room sat the tombstone. Leota’s eyes got a wise look, and immedi- ately she pretended to gasp, and thoughts skipped through her head in devilish quick- ness. Her superstitions were something Walter had never been able to touch or take away from her. She gasped, drew back, and Walter stared at her with his droopy eye- lids hanging over his shiny gray eyes. "No, no,” cried Leota, definitely. "'Em not moving in any room with any dead man!” “Leota!” said her husband. “What do you mean?” wondered the landlord. “Madam, you don’t — ” There’s some mighty peculiar things under a tombstone; some are dead , and some. . . . 72

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THE TOMBSTONE 75 Leota smiled inwardly. Of course, she didn’t really believe, but this was her only weapon against her Oklahoma man, so — "I mean that I won’t sleep in no room with no corpse. Take him out of here!” Walter gazed at the sagging bed wearily, and this gave Leota pleasure, to be able to frustrate him. Yes, indeed, superstitions were handy .things. She heard the landlord saying, "This tombstone is the very finest gray marble. If belongs to Mr. Whetmore.” “The name carved on the stone is WHITE,” observed Leota coldly. "Certainly, that’s the man’s name for whom the stone was carved.” "And is he dead?” asked Leota, waiting. The landlord nodded. "There, you see!” cried Leota. Walter groaned; a groan which meant he was not stirring another inch, looking for a room. "It smells like a cemetery in here,” said Leota, watching Walter’s eyes get hot and flinty. The landlord explained: "Mr. Whetmore, the former tenant of this room was an apprentice marble-cutter, this was his first job, he used to tap on it with a chisel every night from seven until . ten.” "Well — ” Leota glanced swiftly around to find Mr. Whetmore. "Where is he? Did he die, too?” She enjoyed this game. "No, he discouraged himself and quit cutting this stone to work in a defense plant.” “Why?” "Made a mistake.” The landlord tapped the marble lettering. "WHITE’S the name here. Spelled wrong. Should be WHYTE, with a Y instead of an I. Poor Mr. Whet- more. Inferiority complex. Gave up at the least little mistake and scuttled off.” "I’ll be damned,” said Walter, shuffling into the room and unpacking the rusty brown suitcases, his back to Leota. The landlord liked to tell the rest of the story: "Yes, Mr. Whetmore gave up easily. To show you how touchy he was, he’d percolate coffee mornings, and if he spilled a tea- spoonful it was a catastrophe — he’d throw it all away and not drink coffee for days! Think of that! He got. very sad when he made errors. If he put his left shoe on first, in- stead of his right, he’d cease trying and walk barefooted for ten or twelve hours, on cold mornings, even. Or if someone spelled his name wrong on his letters, he’d replace them in the mail-box marked no such per- son living here. Oh, he was a great one, was Mr. Whetmore!” "That don’t paddle us no further up- crick,” pursued Leota grimly. "Walter, what’re you commencing?” “Hanging your silk dress in this closet; the red one.” "Stop hanging, wo’-re not staying.” The landlord blew out his breath, not understanding how a woman could grow so dumb. "I’ll explain once more. Mr. Whet- more did his home work here; he hired a truck which carried this tombstone here one day while I was out shopping for a turkey at the grocery, and when I walked back — tap- tap-tap — I heard it all the way downstairs — Mr. Whetmore had started chipping the marble. And he was so proud I didn’t dare complain. But he was so awful proud he made a spelling mistake and now he ran off without a word, his rent is paid all the way till Tuesday, but he didn’t want a re- fund, and now I’ve got some truckers with a hoist who’ll come up first thing in the morning. You won’t mind sleeping here one night with it, now will you? Of course not.” The husband nodded. "You understand, Leota? "Ain’t no dead man under that rug.” He sounded so superior, she wanted to kick him. She didn’t believe him, and she stiffened. She poked a finger at the landlord. “He wants his money, and you, Walter you want a bed to drop your bones on. Both of you are lying from the word ’go’!” The Oklahoma man paid the landlord his money tiredly, with Leota chastizing him, the landlord ignored her as if she were in- visible, said good-night and she cried "Liar!” after him as he shut the door and left them alone. Her husband undressed and got in bed and said, "Don’t stand there staring at the tombstone, turn out the lights. We been traveling four days and I’m bushed.” Her tight criss-crossed arms began to quiver over her thin breasts, "None of the three of us will get any sleep,” she said. Twenty minutes later, disturbed by vari- ous sounds and movements, the Oklahoma

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74 WEIRD TALES man unveiled his vulture’s face from the bedsheets, blinking stupidly. "Leota, you still up! I said, a long time ago, for you to switch off the light and come sleep! What you doing there?” It was quite evident what she was about. Crawling on rough hands and knees, she placed a jar of fresh-cut red, white and pink geraniums bdside the headstone, and an- other tin-can of new-cut roses at the foot of the imagined grave. A pair of shears lay on the linoleum, dewy with having snipped flowers in the night outside a moment be- fore. Now she briskly whisked the colorful linoleum with a midget whisk broom, pray- ing so her husband couldn’t hear the words but just the murmur. When she rose up, she stepped across the grave carefully so as not to defile the buried one, and in crossing the room she skirted far around the spot, say- ing, "There, that’s done,” as she darkened the room and laid herself out on the whin- ing spring which sang in tune with her hus- band who now asked, "What in the Lord’s name!” and she replied, looking at the dark around her, "No man’s going to rest easy with strangers sleeping right atop him. I made amends with him, flowered his bed so he won’t stand around rubbing his bones to- gether late tonight.” Her husband looked at the place she occu- pied in the dark, and couldn’t think of any- thing good enough to say, so he just swore, groaned, and sank down into sleeping. Not half an hour later, she grabbed his elbow and turned him so she could whisper swiftly, fearfully into one of his ears, like a person calling into a cave: "Walter!” she cried. "Wake up, wake up!” She intended doing this all night, if need be, to spoil his superior kind of slumber. He struggled with her. “What’s wrong?” "Mr. White! Mr. White! He’s beginning to haunt us!” "Oh, go to sleep!” “I’m not fibbing! Listen to him!” The Oklahoma man listened. From under the linoleum, sounding about six feet or so down, muffled, came a man’s sorrowful talk- ing. Not a word came through clearly, just a sort of sad mourning. The Oklahoma man sat up in bed. Feel- ing his movement, Leota hissed, "You heard, you heard?” excitedly. The Okla- homa man put his feet on the cold linoleum. The voice below changed ' into a falsetto. Leota began to sob, "Shut up, so I can hear,” demanded her husband, angrily. Then, in the heart-beating quiet, he bent his ear to the floor and Leota said, "Don’t tip over the flowers!” and he cried, "Shut up!” and again listened, tensed. Then he spat out an oath and rolled back under the covers, "It’s only the man downstairs,” he muttered. "That’s what I mean. Mr. White!” "No, not Mr. White. We’re on the sec- ond floor of an apartment house, and we got neighbors down under. Listen.” The fal- setto downstairs talked. "That’s the man’s wife. She’s probably telling him not to look at another man’s wife! Both of them prob- ably drunk.” "You’re lying!” insisted Leota. "Acting brave when you’re really trembling fit to shake the bed down. It’s a haunt, I tell you, and he’s talking in voices, like Grandma Hanlon used to do, rising up in her church pew and making queer tongues all mixed, like a black man, an Irishman, two women and three frogs caught in her craw! That dead man, Mr. White, hates us for moving in with him tonight, I tell you! Listen!” As if to back her up, the voices down- stairs talked louder. The Oklahoma man lay on his elbows, shaking his head hopelessly, wanting to laugh, but too tired. Something crashed. "He’s stirring in his coffin!” shrieked Leota. "He’s mad! We got to move outa here, Walter, or we’ll be found dead to- morrow!” More crashes, more bangs, more voices. Then silence. Followed by a movement of feet in the air over their heads. Leota whimpered. "Lie’s free of his tomb! Forced his way out and he’s tromping the air over our heads!” By this time, the Oklahoma man had his clothing on beside the bed, and was putting on his boots. "This building’s three stories high,” he said, tucking in his shirt. "We got neighbors overhead who just come home.” To Leota’ s weeping he had this to say, "Come on. I’m taking you upstairs to meet them people. That’ll prove -who they are. Then we ’ll walk downstairs to the first

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THE TOMBSTONE floor and talk to that drunkard and his wife. Get up, Leota.” , Someone knocked on the door. Leota squealed and rolled over and over making a quilted mummy of herself. “He’s in his coffin again, rapping to get out!” The Oklahoma man switched on the lights and unlocked the door. A very jubi- lant little man in a dark suit, with wild blue eyes, wrinkles, gray hair and thick glasses danced in. "Sorry, sorry,” declared the little man. "I’m Mr. Whetmore. I went away. Now I’m back. I’ve had the most astonishing stroke of luck. Yes, I have. Is my tomb- stone still here?” He looked at the stone a moment before he saw it. "Ah, yes, yes, it is! Oh, hello.” Tie saw Leota peering from many layers of blanket. "I’ve some men with a roller-truck, and, if you don’t mind, we’ll move the tombstone out of here, this very moment. It’ll only take a moment.” The husband laughed with gratitude. "Glad to get rid of the damned thing. Wheel her out!” Mr. Whetmore directed two brawny workmen into the room. He was almost breathless with anticipation. "The most amazing thing. This morning I was lost, beaten, dejected — but a. miracle happened.” The tombstone was loaded onto a small coaster truck. "Just an hour ago, I heard, by chance, of a Mr. White who was dying of pneumonia. A Mr. White, mind you, who spells his name with an T instead of a 'Y\ I have just contacted his wife, and she is de- lighted that the stone is all prepared. And Mr. White not cold more than sixty min- utes, and spelling his name with an T, just think of it. Oh, I’m so happy!” ' 75 The tombstone, on its truck, rolled from the room, while Mr. Whetmore and the Oklahoma man laughed, shook hands, and Leota watched with suspicion as the commo- tion came to an end. "Well, that’s now all over,” grinned her husband as he closed the door on Mr. Whetmore and began throwing the canned flowers into the sink and drop- ping tire tin cans into a waste-basket. In the dark, he climbed into bed again, oblivious to her deep and solemn silence. She said not a word for a long while, but just lay there, alone-feeling. She felt him adjust the blan- kets with a sigh, "Now we can sleep. The damn old thing’s took away. It’s only ten- thirty. Plenty of time left for sleep.” How he enjoyed spoiling her fun. Leota was about to speak when a rapping came from down below again. "There! There!” she cried, triumphantly, holding her husband. "There it is again, the noises, like I said! Hear them!” Her husband knotted his fists and clenched his teeth. "How many times must I explain. Do I have to kick you in the head to make you understand, woman! Let me alone. There’s nothing — ” "Listen, listen, oh, listen,” she begged in a whisper. They listened to the square darkness. A rapping on a door came from down- stairs. A door opened. Muffied and distant and faint, a woman’s voice said, sadly, "Oh, it’s you, Mr. Whetmore.” And deep down in the darkness under- neath the suddenly shivering bed of Leota and her Oklahoma husband, Mr. Whet- more’s voice replied: "Good evening again, Mrs. White. Here. I brought the stone.”

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o/econd Childhood By JACK SNOW UT te HAS come back, John,” Miss B — — I Lucy stated simply with a faint I 1 smile. "All the way back over . all those years — what a bridge of memory he has crossed!” The old lady sighed, her voice sounding thinly in the dying garden like the memory itself of a voice, just as the ruined blossoms and splotched leaves were silent mementoes of a once lovely garden. ‘'Is that what you wished to tell me, Miss Lucy?” I asked. The fragile body, withered as a leaf, leaned to me for support as we walked slowly down the garden path. "Merely that memories of your childhood are growing stronger? That is not uncom- We never really forget childhood playmatesrnor they us. . . . 76 Heading by A. R. TILBURNE

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SECOND CHILDHOOD 77 mon, you know, with people of your age. As you approach the end of your, long jour- ney,” I added, "memory becomes brilliantly clear and vivid and you recall many child- hood scenes that have lain buried for long years in the depths of memory.” "Yes, yes, I know,” answered Miss Lucy. “But this is something more — something more, John, then just memory. Willie has come back. He is just as he was when I was a little girl and we played in this very gar- den through the long summer days. I see him, John; I talk with him.” "Just who is this Willie?” I asked pa- tiently, knowing that it was far better for Miss Lucy to discuss these fancies with me, her doctor and friend of long standing, than to close them away morbidly in her aging mind. “Willie was my childhood playmate — my only playmate. I was a very lonely child and lived a solitary life here in this huge old house. There were only Father, my gover- ness and the servants for companions, and they were poor enough companions for an imaginative child.” Miss Lucy paused, fum- bling among her memories. "Of my mother I recall nothing. I know her only as she appears in the painting which hangs in the library: a forceful featured, stern-faced woman. Strange,” Miss Lucy went on mus- ingly, "that with all her strength she yielded so easily to death and died so young.” I could not help adding silently in my own thoughts, “And equally strange that this fragile wisp of humanity beside me should endure and persevere against death for so long a time.” "Was Willie the son of one of the serv- ants?” I prompted. Miss Lucy glanced at me in surprise. "No, no!” she exclaimed with a bird-like little chirp. "I do not know really who he was. I know only that my earliest memo- ries are of Willie. He was always with me. It is as though he had been bom or had entered this world at the same time I did — accompanied me. Father and the others were at first amused when I told them about Willie. I was scarcely able to talk then. But as I grew older their amusement changed to impatience and then anger. They said I must stop all my foolishness about Willie. They never understood.” “You mean they never saw Willie?” I asked. "Oh, no! He was much too clever to al- low them to see him. He revealed himself only to me.” I sighed ana . faced the old lady. "Miss Lucy,” I began, "do you mean to tell me that this Willie of yours was nothing more than one of those dream children that lonely boys and girls sometimes invent when they are deprived of human playmates?” JWjflSS LUCY’S faded old eyes opened 1¥A wide with indignation as she replied stubbornly, "Now you are talking just like the others. I tell you Willie was very real — as real as I am. And,” she concluded with triumph, "he has kept his word. He has done as he said he would — he has come back!” "He told you he would come back?” I asked curiously. "Threatened, rather,” the old lady re- plied, staring into the shadows. "I can re- member the scene as clearly as though it were only yesterday instead of seventy years ago. I was seventeen at the time. I had just met David and fallen in love with him. It seemed that within the space of an hour I had grown up, had stopped being a child and had become a woman. "It was right here in this garden in the twilight of a far-away June night that I sent Willie away forever — or so I thought. I was to go to a ball with David that evening, and I was eager to begin dressing, so per- haps I was a little hasty and rude with Wil- lie. I told him he must go away, that I was no longer a child. Oh, he was furious! He accused me of forsaking him for David. And really he was almost pathetic — so small and so angry as he turned from me and ran down the garden shouting to me that he would go, ■ but that he would come back. There were actually tears in his black eyes —tears of rage,” she added absently. "Then Willie did not grow as you did: he remained a small child?” "No,” Miss Lucy replied, "Willie never changed. He was then and he is now just as I first remember him — a boy about seven years of age. He is dressed in the chil- dren’s fashions of seventy years ago. Why,” the old lady went on, the flicker of a smile

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78 WEIRD TALES haunting her face, "he still carries, that ugly stone hatchet that he loves so well. He calls it his tomahawk. It is the only toy he ever had. He used to play Indian with it here in this garden when I was a child. Poor little Willie, it was so long ago. At least he has been faithful. The years meant noth- ing to him.” The old lady’s voice drifted vacantly and forlornly into the thickening shadows of the garden. For a brief time we were both silent, lost in meditation. Then, feeling the chill and dampness of the garden as evening drew on, I escorted Miss Lucy to the house where I left a mild sleeping potion for her and cau- tioned Hannah, Miss Lucy’s housekeeper and companion, not to leave her charge too much alone — melancholia and hallucina- tions grow out of solitude and loneliness. With that I departed for my home where I w-as long overdue for dinner. AS I walked the short distance to my own comfortable house, I reflected on Miss Lucy’s unhappy life. As family physician and friend, I had known Miss Lucy as long as I had known anyone. Always everyone had referred to her as "Miss Lucy” and as "Miss Lucy” I, first as a child and then as a man, had known her. My earliest memo- ries of her were of a beautiful but sad-faced woman in her early thirties. The death of her sweetheart in a tragic hunting accident a few days before the day set for their wed- ding had blighted her entire life. She had shut herself up in the gloomy house and lived out her days as a lonely recluse. And now this was the end. She was turning back to her childhood, seeking the companion- ship of that first friend — an imaginary child playmate. "Truly,” I ruminated, as I walked swiftly through the damp of that darkening Octo- ber evening to the beckoning cheer of a hearty dinner and a warm fireside, "this was a splendid example of the evolution of the life span, moving from childhood to adult- hood and back to childhood again — the completed circle.” As I stepped over my threshold, and was greeted with the aroma of dinner waiting to be served, I forgot for the time all about Miss Lucy wandering in her dead garden with her pathetic imagin- ings. T7TROM that time on I made it a point to -L look in on Miss Lucy at least once a week. Not that she needed medical care. But I knew that I was her only visitor, and some- one from outside her own small world was necessary to keep her from sinking too deeply into her dreams. To all outrvard appearances my aged patient remained un- changed. And yet, I found myself disturbed by something in her manner— a furtive rest- lessness, an unexpressed apprehension that lurked in her tired old eyes. At last one day I asked Miss Lucy the question, the answer to which, I felt sure, would explain the old lady’s uneasiness. "Have you seen Willie lately?” Miss Lucy started, then folding her thin hands, she regarded me quietly from pale gray eyes set in a lace filigree of tiny wrinkles. "Yes, John,” she murmured, "I see him quite often now. He comes to me almost every day. And, John, he — he is so very angry with me!” "Angry?” I asked. "Why should you im- agine he is angry with you?” "Because I will not go away with him,” Miss Lucy stated simply. "Willie says that he can make me a little girl again and that we shall be able to play in the shadows in the garden just as we used to so many long years ago — if — if I will go away with him. ” "But this is nonsense, Miss Lucy,” I said firmly. "You are letting your imagination run away with you.” "You do not know Willie,” replied Miss Lucy stubbornly. "He wants a playmate. I have kept him alone for a long time — all those years when I sent him away from me. He will not stay alone any longer.” "But you really don’t believe,” I began, and then broke off with a smile. "Come, Miss Lucy,” I said, adopting the conde- scending tone one uses with unreasonable children, "this imaginary child of yours is claiming altogether too much of your atten- tion. You must think of other things.” Miss Lucy stared at me with empty eyes like a ghost. "Imaginary? Other things? There are no other things in my life,” she said hope- lessly. "Willie is the only reality left.” And then she went on as though I hadn’t spoken. "You don’t know Willie,” she re-

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SECOND CHILDHOOD 79 peated persistently. "Willie is not like other children. He is not good. There is something strange about him — something I never could quite understand, although he has tried to whisper to me about himself, and then his manner and tone frightened me so that I would not listen. The first time he tried to tell me I was only a little girl and could not have understood. Neverthe- less something of the evil of his words I must have sensed, for I clapped my hands to my ears and burst into tears. No, Willie is not like other children. I believe him. I believe he can do what he says. He can take me away with him and make me like himself if he wants to — only, I am afraid.” Miss Lucy’s voice had subsided to a whis- per as she finished this strange speech. I realized the uselessness of arguing with the old lady in her present state of mind. I recognized symptoms of cumulative hallu- cination indicating extreme ageing, and — I believed — dissolution of her mind. I con- cluded this visit by instructing Hannah to keep a close watch on her mistress. The occasion of my last visit to Miss Lucy found me making my way hastily to the old Victorian mansion in answer to a phone call from Hannah, saying that Miss Lucy had not risen that morning as was her custom, but had remained in bed all day. I had been absent from my office making calls and had not received this message until nearly evening. Hannah said Miss Lucy was in no pain. She was only very weak and tired. From these symptoms I knew that my patient was suffering from no other malady than old age. I knew, too, that the end was near. Hannah met me at the door, asking me to go directly up to Miss Lucy’s room. Han- nah had left her only a minute before and now hurried away to the kitchen to prepare some warm broth for her patient. IT WAS later afternoon of a damp, gray day in early February. As I softly opened the door to Miss Lucy’s room, a ray of winter sunlight fell chillily across the faded carpet. Instantly I stopped, frozen in the doorway with shock and amazement. What I saw was no trick of the wan winter sunlight, of that I was sure. For the merest fraction of a second there flashed before my vision the unmistakable forms of a small girl and boy. The boy’s right hand clasped the left hand of the girl. Both children were dressed in the clothing of generations ago; the boy in knee breeches and velvet jacket with lace collar, while the girl wore a pinafore and her flaxen hair was done in two tight little pigtails. In that split second in which I glimpsed the figures, their backs were to me, and they were running to the window through which the rays of the last cheerless sunlight of the short winter day poured. I experienced an overpowering and unforget- table sense of revulsion as the figure of the little boy flitted before me. He was short and squat, and his body in some manner conveyed a hint of deformity without actu- ally revealing any misshapeness. His child clothing somehow did not fit properly as it would a normal child. It was as though the garments were masking or cloaking some abnormality. His black hair hung lankly down his back, and around his head there seemed to hover a nimbus of evil. In his free hand tire boy grasped an ancient stone hatchet — his plaything. It flashed through my mind that he was more of an imp or gargoyle than a human child. While my eyes blinked in amazement, the two visions winked out of existence like dancing motes in the sun’s rays. Shaken by this apparition more than I cared to confess, I turned after a moment to the bed. One glance told me that Miss Lucy was dead. She lay with her head turned to a peculiar angle, and her right arm thrown up across her forehead in a gesture curi- ously suggesting defense. Reaching with one hand under her head to straighten it on the pillow, I removed her arm from her forehead with my other hand. As I did this, that happened which will haunt me until my dying, day. As I gently lifted Miss Lucy’s arm from her forehead, thin trickles of blood de- scended like a red veil over her brow, and, as my other hand simultaneously sought the back of Miss Lucy’s head, the long, fine filaments of her soft, silver hair and the delicate, parchment-thin scalp from which they grew came gently loose in my trem- bling hand.

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rfiilKlilllllllllfiUBIlK By ROGER S. VREELAND Heading by A. R. TILBURNE P~~E \ HERE were times when our little 1 home was the loveliest spot on j| earth. A sweet ramshackle home- stead off a dirt road, away from town, and no close neighbors except old Everett Mar- lowe. Delia and I thought it was about per- fect. We had been there only a year. As for Marlowe, we didn’t mind him. His property was next to ours, but his house, a four- story freak of stone block, was hidden — all but the slate roof — behind a thick wall of hemlock. Poor old Marlowe, we used to think. Just one old man alone in a place big enough for a hotel. During that first year the only times we ever saw him was when he puttered about in his garden of herbs. I repeat, there were times when our home A strange-lookin g garden . . . some of the plants were ordinary; hut others ivere, I well, just plain queer! !r.!!BHE!i(S!iBII3IIBIIBI'BilEHBUCiiBnBI!iilBli«i!BilB!liiliBI!eil6ilIIIB!iE!lBhBliij||3ilBii9illhB!>BilSllS;!B!iB!lBl!Billi;BllBllB'iBIIB!illililBllll!lllBllS!!fiHBIlBMBiIBIil!IE!IGI!eifBii^ 80

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, A SIP WITH SATAN 81 was lovely. But there were times when it was not. Not that Delia and I didn’t get along. Nothing like that. We were in love. No, there was something else that at unpre- dictable intervals shadowed our life there. I wish I could explain it. All I can say is this: The atmosphere would become heavy. Our spirits would sink. We would lie awake nights; become nervous. A heavy silence would fall over the place. If only a cricket would chirp; if only some water would drip, a mouse scratch. Delia would whisper: "There is some- thing surrounding us! What is it, George?” I felt it, too, but it was six months before I admitted it. These periods lasted two or three days, not to recur in as many weeks. At first I tried to think it was just the New England weather, but — well, there was no use pre- tending it didn’t bother me. Between times, however, we forgot about it, and the dreary periods seemed like dull dreams. We had moved there in October, when the place was bathed in a mellow glory on a rise that received the sun almost all the day. The oaks then were nearly bare, and the maples were golden. We had many fruit trees and berry bushes, but oddly there were no apples — save a few branches that hung over from Marlowe’s property. No apple trees — -that was all that I then had against the place. HERE it was October again, and that apple tree of Marlowe’s was loaded with the most delicious Mclntoshes you could ever sink your teeth in. And my neigh- bor let those ruddy, sweet apples drop to the ground and rot! This was what led to my first meeting with Everett Marlowe, for I was aggressive enough to go right over and tell him that if he didn’t want those apples, I did. I had to sort of weed him out of his garden of herbs. It was a strange-looking garden, and meticulously cared for. Some plants were plain, some exotic, others ex- ceedingly queer. Marlowe was on his knees in the midst of yard-high bushes, plucking odd little turquoise berries into a tin cup. He didn’t hear me at first. I had to shout. .When he did look up, instead of being startled he merely smiled and said, "Hello, George.” Since I had never seen him before (one could never forget his face) for a moment I was set back. His appearance was definitely unpleasant, but his provincial drawl was friendly. "Why shore, take ’em,” he said. "I cain’t eat ’em. Only got three tooth!” The truth of this was conspicuous. It might be added that they were large and protruding. This . first meeting was brief. I liked the old fellow, and I didn’t. There was something repelling about him, not just that he v/as dirty and homely, but he had a manner that made me want to run and hide. As for the apples, I gathered them all, and in the next few days my wife did up some applesauce. She suggested it would be nice to give him a few quarts. I hadn’t told her of his negative effect upon me; didn’t want to upset her. I took the jars over, knocked on his back door, and he opened it quickly. A cold musty draft hit me. He took the applesauce and thanked me with mini- mum ceremony. Reciprocation was not what I expected, but Marlowe proved he had some neigh- borly spirit. I’ll never forget the night he appeared at our kitchen door with a bulging brown bag in his hand. After inviting him in I was placed in extreme embarrassment by Delia, who was doing up the supper dishes. This was the first time she had seen him at close range. She dropped a plate, put her hands to her face and uttered a shud- dering cry. But I suppose it was natural for her to be startled, for his parched old face, uncouth beard and hair, those three teeth, and his gray lightless eyes composed a frightening sight. But Marlowe took no notice. "It’s good applesauce,” he said. "I already et some."’ He paused, fumbled with the bag. "You’re the first’ ns to show me kindness in many years,” he went on awkwardly. "Here’s a l’l present for ynh,” and he held forth the bag to Delia. "It’s herbs,” he mumbled. "I grow ’em. Put ’em in a pot with some water and boil ’em. Makes good tea. Heh, heh, heh!” His voice was cracky under a forced laugh. I thanked him and he left abruptly, I

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82 WEIRD TALES threw the bag on a high shelf in the pantry and forgot about it. NOW that we had lived here awhile, Delia and I began to cultivate friend- ships in the town, about a mile down the road. We joined the church and grew friendly with the. minister and his wife. Delia joined the Ladies Aid, I the Men’s Club. It was the old-fashioned kind of life we had always wanted. Still, the cloud hung over. We never mentioned those awful spells to anyone. In fact it was a long time before we ever got around to even speaking of Everett Mar- lowe. One thing in our relations with the townsfolk, however, we could not under- stand. None of them would ever come to visit us. There was always an excuse for us to go to their homes. Thanksgiving passed. So did Christmas. We saw practically nothing of Marlowe — - just his form, briefly, now and then, about his house. Bitt we could feel him. Then, on the night of January 29, there was a windy storm. I remember the date well. A fine sleet was glazing everything, and the wind was bending trees and snap- ping branches. Delia and I sat close to our hearth fire and close to each other, reading, looking up now and then as a dead limb crashed to the ground. The fine icy particles gritted against the windows, and at inter- vals volumes of them slapped at the panes furiously. Delia arose several times to look out. Then, peering through the parted curtains, she said: "George, I saw someone swinging a lantern.” I joined her and looked out to where the roadway wound up the hill to- ward the front of the house. I could see a few nearby trunks against the whitened ground, and a fine outline of the tree tops, but nothing else. Delia insisted, neverthe- less, that she had seen a light. We made an attempt to resume our read- ing, although we were both too nervous to concentrate. About ten minutes passed. Then, at a sound, we both jumped. It was barely audible, at first, but it unkeyed us. A knocking at the door! Why should we be frightened by a mere knocking? It will be remembered that visi- tors were unknown to us. Besides that we were so tense that anything could frighten us. It was a very feeble knocking, unrhyth- mical, like someone patting the door with a soft glove. I went quickly to the door, swung it open. There stood Everett Mar- lowe. The first thing I saw in the darkness was his three protruding teeth. But there was something very uncertain about him. Delia uttered a short and high-pitched "Oh!” Then for a prolonged moment Mar- lowe and I faced each other in silence, while cold and sleet blew into the house. Common courtesy deserted me. The natural thing was for me to invite him in, yet I didn’t want to. Marlowe wavered. The brim of his hat concealed his eyes. He was covered with glistening sleet. Then in his thin cracked voice he said: “Can I come in?” He sounded pathetic, and I felt like a coward. At this point I began inwardly to recant. He was indeed gaunt and frightening in appearance, but I wondered if perhaps we had not been fools to think such weird things of him. "Yes — come in,” I said, and I closed the door behind his shuffling steps. Delia stood back, shaking. Marlowe stumbled to a chair and fell into it. « “What is the trouble, Mr. Marlowe?” I asked as steadily as possible. He slouched forward and held his hands over his face. "Make me some . . . tea, kindly,” he mut- tered. "You still got some of my herbs, ain’t yuh?” "Yes, but what has brought you here?” "Piece of tree blew down . . . hit me oa head. Quick, fix some tea, you must . . . quick . . He groaned. DELIA was still shaking, but she went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. I looked at Marlowe more closely now. His head and right shoulder were covered with chips of bark. His forehead was bruised. Then, as his head sank lower over his knees, I saw blood trickling down the bade of his neck. He kept on muttering: "Quick . . . quick . . . just bring me my herbs ... a cup . . . hot water . . . hurry . . . it’s the only thing to save me. ...” He was, I now realized, hurt badly. First aid rather than herb tea was my first

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A SIP WITH SATAN ‘83 thought,, so I called to Delia to get cotton and bandages, a basin, and to bring me the water as soon as it was hot. "No! No!” he cried weakly. "Bring me my herbs first!” His tea was prepared. "Let me hold your hand, Delia, will yuh?” he murmured. "It’s been so long — so long since a gentle hand has touched mine!” She took his hand. Marlowe held it, squeezed it gradually — his bony, dirty hand enveloped the small soft one of Delia’s. Then he picked up his cup of foolish tea and put it to his lips. Resentment had risen by bounds within me, but I couldn’t speak or move. Whether the storm suddenly be- came quiet, or whether I just ceased hearing, I don’t know. But, that dread silence and that indescribable feeling of depression was smothering me. Marlowe sipped slowly, and closed his eyes. It must have been five minutes before he drained the cup — and he was very quiet. Finally the cup dropped from his fingers, fell to his lap, and the dregs dripped to the floor. As though someone were opening a door again to the outer world, the sound of the storm grew once more in my ears. Again the night howled. Words can no longer serve to relate my feeling. O God, what a time! What an un- holy event! The Prince of Darkness was presiding over my house, and I was alone. Complete terror possessed me during those few minutes. But I struggled to find my voice. "Marlowe!” I yelled. His face was the color of ashes. Marlowe was dead! I didn’t merely suppose so. I knew it. He was dead. That in itself wasn’t so bad. He was nothing to me. He was dead in my house — I could forget that. But my wife! The look that came into her eyes shattered what was left of my nerves. She arose stiffly, looked at me with eyes I had never seen before, reached for the bag of herbs, calmly stepped across the room and walked out into the night. I was speech- less. First I glanced at the corpse of Everett Marlowe, then at the door Delia had closed behind her. All about me was haunting emptiness. Then with a surge of panic I ran for my lantern. I couldn’t find it at first. When I did, my hand shook so that it was several moments before I could get it lighted. Without hat or coat, and with my lantern swinging at my side I ran out to find Delia. There were her footsteps in the snow, leading toward the road. I followed the best I could, while my hoarse cries in the storm seemed to die at their source, meek and futile. Straight down the road toward town, they led, but the wind and falling snow was rapidly voiding them. Soon they were in- visible, but I kept on until I came to the cluster of buildings comprising the town. All lights were out. But I got up Sheriff Mawson. We had been somewhat friendly. I guess he thought I was crazy. There wasn’t much he could do then, but he made the effort. The confusion, the storm, and my emo- tional state had made the night such a weird fantasy that I hardly remember what hap- pened. I know that when the gray skies re- lightened I was simply obeying orders in an organized search for Delia. The snow had stopped, but the cold and the wind persisted. Removal of Marlowe’s body had been managed without me. Although I was asked a lot of questions, apparently they were satisfied for the present that I was not involved in anything of a criminal nature. Delia’s disappearance, however, ended in a strange sequence to the already per- plexing series of events. Word came that she had been found at an outlying farm- house coincident with the disappearance there of the farmer’s wife — a Mrs. New- comb. Object of the search was then trans- ferred to Mrs. Newcomb, and Delia, in a highly nervous state, was returned home. With her came Sheriff Mawson, the county physician and a handful of other tawdry, badge-breasted busy-bodies. Delia was exhausted and dazed, although ■ — so far as I could tell — entirely rational. I insisted that she be put to bed before fur- ther questioning. I made her some tea. Sight of the cup as I held it toward her brought a low cry from her lips. "Now I remember!” she whispered. "Mr. Marlowe was drinking his tea!” "Of course, dear, but what happened after that? Why did you go out?” "Go out?” She gazed at me search ingiy.

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84 WEIRD TALES Her eyes swept briefly the other faces in the room. “Go out? — I don’t remember. 1 don’t remember a thing after Mr. Mar- lowe drank his . . . his stuff, and held my hand.” WILBUR FISHER was an undertaker in the next community. Mts. New- comb was reported found by Mrs. Fisher in the living room of the latter’s home when she had returned from a visit about 11 o’clock at night. Now Mr. Fisher was missing. The routine was established. The undertaker was discovered the following night at the home of a neighbor. An 18- year-old lad from that home was next on the missing list. This went on for several days. Never was there an inkling as to who the next victim would be nor whence he would van- ish. At first no serious harm befell any of -these amnesia-like unfortunates. Then — one week after Marlowe’s death and Delia’s disappearance — the Reverend Cubberly was gone. There were some particular details I had observed in connection with each disap- pearance, and I wondered if anyone else had noticed them. After much thought I decided to keep these observations to my- self, and to follow them through in com- plete privacy. I didn’t even tell Delia except in a very general way. Resolving to visit the empty house of Everett Marlowe, I chose the next morning to do so. Sauntering from my bade yard, past the apple trees, through a jungle of bare briars, and under the hemlocks, I came into the shadow of the big forlorn house. It was forbidding enough in sum- mer, with a background of foliage to soften it. But now it stood mean and stark. As I paced apprehensively through old Marlowe’s herb garden, the overhang of the thick slate roof moved over me as though to crush me out. The black win- dows gave no evidence of what was within. The very walls of the house, lined with cracks and brown creepers of ivy, frowned down at me. I paused curiously over herb brush bearing winter berries, and noticed green leaves under protective balls of glass. Mounting the back stoop, I was sur- prised that the old boards didn’t crumple with my weight. The stoop itself sagged away from the stone of the main structure, and warped wooden embellishment hung loose from the eaves. The door was massive enough for the main portal of a fine house. It pushed open easily. The odor of the place was at once sick- ening. Mustiness, sour plaster, and stale food mingled with other smells. A short corridor led to the kitchen, apparently the room Marlowe had lived in, for it con- tained a cot with a pile of dirty blankets, a table with unwashed dishes, food leftover, a wood-cooking stove, stack of kindling, pots and utensils, and in a dark corner a sink and handpump. The house had been built for elegant living of its day, but decadency had ruled for many years. I moved slowly through other rooms on the first floor. They -were mostly bare. A few pieces of old dusty furniture stood here and there. Probably Marlowe had chopped up the original furnishings for his stove. Little by little, I imagined, he had stripped the house of things which must have been beautiful and costly. Outlines on the walls showed where paintings had hung, where massive pieces of furniture had stood. All the rooms were gloomy, considering it was a bright morning, until I came to a wide and handsome drawing room. Here light flooded through an immense bay window, onto a sprawling array of plants — more herbs — growing in flower pots and boxes. The floor was a mess from where he had watered them and spilled earth. Even though I had had no association with the place, no reason for sentiment, something choked me as I went up the grand stairway. It was this desolate empti- ness all around in a place that had been built for gaiety, where the warmth of hu- man sociality once had pulsed so strong, and now was a mausoleum for dead memo- ries. Statuary, porcelain, glass and iron or- naments— cold symbols of a past — stood about to haunt the silence. They alone sur- vived, I suppose, because Marlowe couldn't bum them in his kitchen stove. Everett Mar- lowe— miserable wretch — scion of a proud family — what curse had left him to survive alone in these ruins? Through the rooms of the second floor and the third floor I moved. They were

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A SIP WITH SATAN ‘'85 just empty rooms — only bits of evidence were here and there of the luxuries they had once known. Now that I was in the house it seemed even higher than I realized. And there was yet a fourth floor. As I ap- proached this, up less impressive stairs, the first floor and kitchen seemed remote in- deed. Reaching a semi-circular landing 1 faced a fanlike arrangements of dosed doors. Nearing the end of my inspection, disap- pointment was growing because I hadn’t found what I specifically sought. Beginning at the left, I opened the doors methodically. There were small rooms, probably for serv- ants. But upon opening the last door 1 faced surprise. This room, much larger than the other, was completely furnished and had been much used. A glance and I knew that this was what I had been looking for. There were the untidy signs of work always a step ahead of orderliness. The floor was car- peted, there were comfortable chairs; shelves lined with books filled one wall, and a great cabinet containing hundreds of bottles oc- cupied the other side. The central piece of furniture, however, was an old-fashioned rolltop desk. It was open, and on it stood an oil lamp and a brown book. This, specifically the book, was what I hoped I might find. I picked it up, and the brown of its aged covering came off powdery in my hands. The pages were dark and brittle. It had been exactingly bound, and every word in it was hand inscribed. Then I looked at the titles on the shelves, read the labels on the bottles. All confirmed what I anticipated. BE AN ARTIST! Trained Artists are Capable of Earning $30, $50, $75 a Week Uce Ycur Snare Time to Prepare for a Profitable Art Career! COMMERCIAL ART, DESIGNING and CARTOONING— all ifl ONE complete home study course. No pre- vious Art experience necessary — we tea.cn you step by ^ep-limdreds bare profltel by our practical method. TWO ART o UN- FITS FURNISHED. Full information in « colorful, FREE BOOK, “Art for Pleasure & Profit’5 — tells all about our course, service, wbat our graduates say— and commercial v opportunities for you in Art. Name | City ....... WASHINGTON SCHOOL OF ART Studio 3I2P. 1 1 15 15th St.. N.W., Wash. 5, D.C. | Send me -your booklet and full particulars about *L your course. AGE. Help Kidneys If Back Aches Do you feel older than you are or suffer from Getting Up Nights, Backache, Nervousness, Leg Pains, Dizziness, Swollen Ankles, Rheumatic Pains, Burning, scanty or frequent passages? If so, remember that your Kidneys are vital to your health and that these symptoms may be due to non-organie and non-sys- tomic Kidney and Bladder troubles — in suoh «ases Cystex (a physician’s prescription) usually gives prompt and joyous relief by helping the Kidneys flush out poisonous excess acids and wastes. Get Cystex from your druggist today. Take it exactly as di- rected and see the results in your own particular ease. Under our guarantee unless completely satisfied you simply return the empty package and get your money back. So get Cystex today. Three guaranteed sizes: Only 35£. 75 f, $1.50 at your druggist. WEIRD BOOKS RENTED Books by Loveeraft, Merritt, Quinn, etc,, rented by mall. Sc a day plus postage. Write for free list. WEREWOLF LENDING LIBRARY, 621 Maryland Dr., Pittsburgh. Pa. I DEPARTED then, with the book under my arm. When I got home Delia was at the door, and her white face was enough to warn me that something was especially wrong. "Wait a minute,” I said. "Don’t speak yet.” I carried the book to my room, locked it in my dresser. I washed my hands. When I returned my wife was standing in the living room, her hand to her forehead. "What is it?” I asked. "Mr. (lubberly is dead.” My stomach sank. "Tell me,” I urged. C Don’t Stop {Now! (Buy U. S. War (Bonds and Stamps m

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A SIP WITH SATAN 87 parts of the country, didn’t rate much im- portance in the city paper — which used them chiefly as fillers. These were notes of human disappear- ances, in most cases attributed to amnesia, such as are seen frequently in any paper. Particular items I filed separately. Now I discovered that if a line were drawn on a map through the places from which they were date-lined, a definite geographic con- tour would result. Early in May the line pointed directly our way, though still hundreds of miles distant, f grew excited. Later the towns became closer together and much nearer. And for the first time the papers carried a general story on a series of amnesia cases, at the same time recalling the events of months earlier in our community. ONE moonlight night my vigil at the Marlowe mansion was rewarded. I saw something move near the corner of the house I tried to stop breathing as I saw the figure of a small man move out into the moon light. I jammed my pipe into my pocket and crouched into the deepest shadow possible. As well as I knew that Everett Marlowe had died and been buried, I knew also that this man was Everett Marlowe. He passed very close to me. He stopped now and then to look, around, as though spotting familiar tilings. I was afraid he would see me. Finally he moved toward one of those glass bells under which he grew strange plants. He lifted the glass and felt some berries. Then he kneeled before the plant and spent four or five minutes picking the berries and dropping them into an envelope. He went through the same procedure at several other bushes, then went into the house. I saw light flickering through the win- dows. I knew what he was doing. I knew be was preparing his herbs. I waited, then walked to the door. "Come out, Everett Marlowe!’’ I called. I heard uncertain steps shuffling and grit- ting on the boards. In a moment the man appeared in the doorway. He didn’t look quite like the Marlowe I knew. I didn’t see those three teeth. The face wasn’t so with- ered. But — those same lighiless eyes! "Who are you?” came a dull voice. "You should know me,” I replied. Everyone who wears plates will wel- come this free offer. CROWN DENTAL CLEANER is an espe- cially prepared antiseptic preparation to keep your plates clean and help eliminate had breath and foreign substances that I collect and cause discomfort. FALSE TEETH TIGHTENS or NO COSTS HERE’S new amazing mouth com fort -without risking a single cent . . . enjoy that feeling of having your own teeth again. Satisfy your desire - - eat what you want. CROWN RELINEli TIGHTENS K0 (!0ST- PERFECT FOR PARTI A LS, LOW- iaRto AND UPPERS Don’t suffer embarrassment and discomfort caused _ by loose dental plates. Apply CROWN ■ ttgemqp liETJNER. In a jiffy your plate fits like 8 *3? .If §if» 5 new and stays that ,way up to 4 months. No old-fashioned heating to burn your mouth. Just squeeze CROWN from tube and put your teeth back in. They’ll fit an snugly as ever. Inventor is a recognized authority in dental field. A patent has been applied for CROWN EELINER to protect you from imitators. After you reline your Plato with CROWN, take you? false teeth out for cleaning without affecting the CROWN EELINER. CROWN RELINER la guaranteed . . . it's harmless. It’s taste- less. Has that natural pink color. NOT A POW- I DER OR PASTE 2 DOES NOT ! BURN 03 ! I R R I- TATE. If not satis- I tied even after & months re- ur™ Iffa MONEY BACK/ tube fork full refuccS. * for CROWN No.3 SQUEEZE cseww FROM TUBE, PUT PLATE tM MPUTI! EATS STEAK! 3. Clements of Algonac writes: “My plates were so bad they rattled when I talked. Now I can < steaks, corn on the cob.” E. W. W., of Virginia, writes: “I found Crown Reliner to be all you claim.” Many more attest to 6ame excellent results. Re- lino your plates with CROWN RELINER today. SEND no MONET You must be 100 % 'de- lighted or no cost. Try four months and return for refund it AT YOUR DRUGSSST OR ORDER DIRECT. [ GROWN PLASTIC COMPANY. DEPT, SOM 4358 W. Philadelphia Ave., Detroit 4, Mich. Send your wonderful Crown Dental Plate Kellner and include tile E free Crown Cleaner. I will pay postman ono dollar plus approsi- * mately 24c. postage on arrival. If I am not satisfied, after four X months, I may return partly used tube for full refund. \ U I am enclosing one dollar in payment, same guarantee.) * Name * * * | ^Address * 1

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A SIP WITH SATAN 89 "I know -what you would like — the same as happened to my wife. Or I might better say, as happened to Mr. Cubberly. You took no chances with him, did you. ...” "Ha!” he grimaced. "So you know about Mm, too! And do you think you can stop me now?” “You are already stopped — and don’t know it!” I blurted out in an angry bluff. "No-o-o-o!” he cried in muffled but con- fident tone. A scowl crossed his face — a scowl of demoniac triumph, of wicked ex- ultation. “I shall never die! I have but begun to live. While now I must live but from day to day, my mind and spirit as one, leaping from one human to another, as a man leaping precariously across a stream from one stepping stone to the next, soon I will have perfected a way to extend the ef- fect of each . . . ha! . . . you know about that, too? Well, soon I will not live only from one night to the next, but until the next full moon reaches its zenith. "Ah!” he went on. "The ways of Satan are subtle. The longer you serve Him the more confidence He places in you, the more of His secrets He divulges.” "So it was Satan,” I said, egging him on, "Who gave you that evil book that was in your fourth- floor study?” Marlowe turned toward me fiercely. Deep in his dull lifeless eyes I saw wax- ing a lurid glow. "What do you know of a book of mine?” he demanded in savage guttural. "Much!” I returned. "I have the book — I have read it from cover to cover — and when you’re dead, I shall burn it page by page!” "Where is it!” he demanded, fury and fear mingled. "Where neither you nor anyone else shall ever find it.” His fingers worked as if in anticipation of reaching for my throat. "I would kill you now — if I didn’t need you. . . “Yes, I understand.” He turned, disgustedly. Impatiently he removed the pan from the stove and be- gan pouring the contents in a glass. This was my deadline for action. Desperately I readied into my pockets. The best I could find was my pipe. Hurling it at him, I knocked the glass to the floor. Then with sudden and great effort I pushed myself NEW SULFA DISCOVERY HALTS ITCHY SKIN OR NO COST At last, the miracle discovery of SULFANILAMIDE is most effectively available to sufferers of ITCHX SORBS, ATHLETES BOOT, PSORIASIS with PUS INFECTION, and many other externally -caused skin ailments . . . made possible through the discovery of SULFA SALVEROL, a smooth ointment put up in con- venient and simple form for easy, home use. Greaseless • * • stainless . . . pleasant odor . . . invisible on the skin. No pus-produemg germs can live on the skin to which SULFA SALVEEOL is applied. SULFA SALVEROL does not injure, irritate or burn the skin. QUICKLY ATTACKS: External Skin Troubles CAUSED BY PUS-GERMS IN! ECZEMA Athlete’s Foot Dermatitis Skin Rashes PIMPLES ITCHY SORES A TRUE BLESSING CONTAINS SCIENCE'S WONDER DRUGS OF THE BATTLE FiEtD SULFANILAMIDE AND SULFATH (AZOLE SULFANILAMIDE and S UL- FATHIAZOLE are recog- nized by the medical profes- sion as a true blessing ... a genuine gift of medical sci- ence and research. All know of the marvelous job they have done in hospitals and clinics, and the miracles performed in saving thou- sands of lives of our boys in the armed forces. Now the efficaciousness of this great discovery combined with other elements comes to you as SULFA SAL- VEBOL to help relieve you of your suffering, discom- fort and embarrassment. Imagine awakening the next morning to find rapid improvement taking place and infected areas responding to the powers of SULFA SALVEBOL! Try it and be convinced at our risk. If it doesn't help, SULFA SALVEBOL costs you nothing. FREE To Try! SULFA SALVEROL contains SULFANILAMIDE with SULFATH!- AZOLE and other precious ingredients which many skin specialist* recognize and recommend. SULFA SALVEROL comes to you in. ointment form for home use and is not messy or greasy. Does nofc interfere with your routine . . . day or night. A large size tube has deliberately been priced low so that all may have the opportunity of enjoying the benefits SULFA SALVEROL offers. Priced at only $2.00 . . . BUT . . . you must be 100< delighted after 10 days* trial or you can return for full refund of your purchase price. Bush coupon below and start checking distressing, annoying and embar- rassing externally-caused sores, at once. 5 Research Drug Co., Itic., Dept, a-232 ”1 | 100 Fifth Avenue. New York 11, N. Y. Send me tubes of SULFA SALVEROL fl at $2.00 per tube. I enclose herewith □ Money Order; □ Check; a ■ □ Cash for $ ■ □ Send C. O. D. (plus approximately 35c postage). Unless satis- ® fled with results after 10 days* trial, money will bj refunded jg to me in full upon return of tube with unused contents within | 14 days from date of purchase. | Mams g a S?reef ........... 8 I CiSy Zone...., — SJate™ | (Please print or write legibly.)

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\ A SIP WITH SATAN 91 It must have been within a very few min- utes of midnight. Marlowe shrieked like a tormented ioon. I felt my own sanity being put to the test. The house from its founda- tions vibrated as if to the discord of great Organ pipes of the deepest pitch. I could stand it no longer. I ran out into the open. The moonlight and lighter air were a relief for a moment. I looked up to the moon — in time to see it blotted out by a sudden dense cloud. Darkness engulfed me, everything — everything except the house. 1 turned toward that awful edifice of evil— whence the weird screaming of Marlowe came unabated. A green aura was giving off from the building, the same sickening hue I had seen inside. It palpitated slowly, like the pulse of some gruesome organism. Suddenly there was a rushing of wind, ac- companied by a thousand tiny singing voices, like a conglomeration of sharps and flats plucked from the highest strings of a harp. With it came a shrouding black- ness, sweeping toward the house from all sides as though bursting in to fill a void. Before it was merely dark. But this was the blackness of chaos. It even snuffed out the green luminosity of the house. And for a moment I lost all sense of feeling. Marlowe’s screaming stopped abruptly. I ALONE knew that the curse of our com- munity now was lifted; that Everett Marlowe never really had died until this mo- ment. I alone knew that there was a man in there, where I left Marlowe, slowly return- ing to consciousness, who soon would won- der where he was, what had happened to him. And I alone knew the ancient sorcerer’s secret that Marlowe had invoked through the wicked concoction of his brew of herbs, the nocuous recipe and its sinister conse- quences— its drug potency that could per- meate the very seat of life to separate the metaphysical threads that bind body and soul. Only I knew that this elixir could thus, at the culmination of its alchemical power, literally free spirit from body; that the liquid a moment after being consumed could empower the drinker, through his mere touching of another person, to transfer his spirit to tire other body where it could overpower and subdue the victim spirit. And You can collect $100 a month for sicknesa ©r accident. $3000 for loss of limbs or sight. $3000 for accidental death. a day insures any man or woman. 16 to 76. NO MEDICAL EXAMINATION. Get this policy for 10 days without risking a penny. Send coupon below. T 1 AREADSA MUTUAL CASUALTY CO. AMERICAN SENTINEL INSURANCE AGENCY 176 W. Adams St., Chicago 3, 911^ Dept. 723 Tell me how to tion, me how to get yonr policy for 10-day inspec- No Agent will call. Name «, a Address. j City, •BacEKausbesH Many are finding welcome relief through the gentle vibration, adjustable soothing heat, anil dilation provided by theDILA-THERM. A modern, scientifically designed instru- ment for easy, economical home use! Liberal terms. Write today for full de- tails and 30-day trial offer.inter- popp ©sting booklet on Prostatitis fiuX THE DILA-THERM CO., INC. 2302 E. Colfax Ave., South Bend 24, D I L A - T HE R M POEMS WANTED I For Musical Setting ' g Mother, Home, Love, Sacred, Patriotic, Comic 9 or any subject. Don't Delay — Send us your I Original Poem at once — for immediate ex- Sg amination and FREE Rhyming Dictionary. 1 Richard Brothers 27 JKRarsSK Try Page's Palliative PILE PREPARATIONS If you are troubled with itching, bleed- ing or protruding piles, write for a FREE sample of Page’s Palliative Pile Preparations and you may bless the day you read this. Don’t wait. WHITE TODAYIi E. R. PAGE CO., Dept. 488X-6, Marshcil, Mich. High School Course at Home 'Many Finish in 2 Years I Go as rapidly as your time and abilities permit. Cours® I equivalent to resident school work — prepares for college j entrance exams. Standard H.S. texts supplied. Diploma- I Credit for H. S. subjects already completed. Single subjects if do- I sired. High school education is very important for advancement it* | business and industry and socially. Don’t be handicapped ail yoar [ life.1’ Bo a High School graduate. Start your training now. urea | Bulletin on request. No obligation. AmcrioanSchoM, Best. H-23S. Qrexel at 53th, ChieasoW

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THE EYRIE v93 Not Beast Nor Man FOR sometime we have pestered Manly Wade Wellman for more information about that "Myth” that may not be a myth, the one con- cerning the Shonokins. Manly Wellman is taking his own time to reveal the sinister nature and macabre ambi- tions of the Shonokins through the eyes and experiences of John Thunstone. However, he did pass along the following to us: To those who have been kind enough to ask for “real information” on the Shonokins, I can only point to the very, very meager dossier that Thunstone himself reveals in the current account. The few beside Thunstone who have ever heard of the Shonokins by name are apt to dismiss them as a "myth.” The only people who know the truth about them died many thousands of years ago. Our ancestors who fought before history’s dawn against creatures that were not beast nor man settled the greatest war question of all time when they established the rule of their descendants on Earth — but whether they set- tled that question eternally remains to be seen. We know only what happened in Europe, the one continent where paleontologists have made » a fairly thorough study of remains. What about America — Asia — other places where the beaten but perhaps not obliterated race of the enemy gathered and prepared— and may be now or- ganizing for a return battle? But if the Shonokins are dangerous, we are dangerous to them. Thunstone has fought no more than the early minor skirmishes before the decisive engagement. Manly Wade Wellman V INDEMNITY .IFS INSURANCE POLICY PAYS MAXIMUM BENEFITS Policy Costs Only $1.00 a Month Provide for those you love this wise, easy way. Only a few pennies a day Vill pay for TRIPLE IN- DEMNITY LIFE INSUR- ANCE, backed by Legal Reserves. Old reliable Pioneer Life Insurance Company offers this as- sured protection without restrictions as to your Occupation, Travel or PHOTECTION Pays for S.OSS of LIFE drte to S-NatealCauses... 2- All Sicknesses ... 3- Ordinarjf Accidents 4- Auto Accidents .. . 5- Travel Accidents. . Stesidence and includes _ M Incontestability Clause — all as plainly Stated m the policy. Men, women and children Jrom 1 day to 70 years of age eligible. No ReS Tape — No Medical Examination! Pull details sent A&'eEt will call. Write at once for PR.ee inspection offer. DON’T DELAY g PIONEER, E.IF.E .INSURANCE COMPANY 8442 Pioneer Building ® Rockford, Illinois LOOSE DENTAL PLATES RELSNED & LIGHTENED AT HOME NEWLY IMPROVED DENDEX KE- LLNER, a plastic, builds up (refits) loose upper and lower dentures. Really makes them fit as they should with- out using powder. Easily applied. No heating required. Brush it on and wear your plates while it sets. It adheres to the plates only and makes a comfortable, smooth and durable surface that can be washed and scrubbed. Each application lasts for months. Not a powder or wax. Con- tains no rubber or gum. Neutral pink color. Sold on MONEY-BACK GUARANTEE. Not sold in stores. Mail $1 for generous supply, brush and directions and we pay postage. Charges extra on C.O.D. orders • 7th Year National Wiail Order sales SENDS CO. 2714 S. Hill St Dept 62-G.laS flngslss 7, Calit JgmsmAL , Save money by ordering glasses in your own home. SVIany handsome row styles. Low Prices. SEKO N© MONEY i usi write for FREE CATALOG Taka advantage of BIG money savings. Wq repair broken glasses. Fill prescrip- tions. MODERN STYLE SPECTACLES, INC. 53 W. Jackson E!vd., Dept. S03, Chicago 90, 111. 0Y MAIL 1 refunded if not entirely Satisfied with, ■’lasse* TOMBSTONES OU6ECT TO YOU $ASi Genuine beautiful 510 CS- up DAT5E Monuments, Markers. ©EASY Satisfaction or MON13Y TEAMS BACK. Freight paid. Free catalog. Compare our prices. ROCKDALE MONUMENT CQ. Depf. 335 Joliet, Illinois

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94 WEIRD TALES TALfl 10 GOB One year ago I .was miserable, deep in debt. Then I discovered an amazing new way to actually talk to God. From that day, my troubles began to fade away. Today I have money, property, automo- biles, the luxuries of life. You, too, can talk to God, I will show you how. A let- ter or postcard to New Life Fellowship, Box XL- 1429, Hollywood, California, will bring you this amazing message of help, instantly, free of charge. Mil ¥0UR PILES? Of course you can’t shoot Piles, hut within a few minutes after the first application, China?Roid usually starts fight- ing the agonies of Piles in 3 ways: 1. Soothes and eases pain and itching. 2. Helps shrink sore, swollen tissues. 3. Promotes healing by comforting irritated membranes and alleviates nervousness due to Piles. Has helped thou- sands while they worked and enjoyed life in greater com- fort. Get Chlrsea-ilold from your druggist today under posi- tive guarantee of complete satisfaction or money back. Don't suffer another day without fighting your Pile misery with Chmcs-RsidL Tear this out: take it to your druggist . 'Be sure to get genuine, guaranteed China^Rotd, a Knox Company Quality Product. If he is sold out, ask him to order it for you . Only 7S$. .What Ye 6® For Paisss of AUTHRITSS Try This Free If you have never used “Rosse Tabs’* for pains of arthritis, neuritis, rheumatism, we want you to try them at our risk. We will send you a full-size package from which you are to tsae 24 Tabs FREE. If not astonished at the palliative re- lief which you enjoy from your sufferings, return the package and you owe us nothing. We mean it! SEND HO MONEY. Just send name and address and we will jfttsh your Tabs by return mail. ROSSE PRODUCTS CO., Dept." 198, 2108 Farwell Avenue, Chicago 45, Illinois. Banish the craving for tobacco as thousands have. Make yourself free and happy with Tobacco Redeemer. Write for free booklet telling of in- jurious effect of tobacco and of a treatment which has re* lieved many men. iFitEEi 30 Years fli 0as?ness j &g$OI£ I the mm compshy LSE2J 600 Ciayfrin Sta., St. ioiiES, Mo. ANY BOOK IN PRINTI Delivered at your door. We pay postage. Standard authors, new books, popular editions, fiction, refer- ence, medical, mechanical, children's books, etc. — alS at Guaranteed savins®. Send card now for Clarkson's 1944 Catalog. K? Write for our great illustrated book catalog, short course in literature. The buying guide of 300,000 book lovers. The answer to your Christ- mas gift problem. FREE if you write NOW — TODAY! ,1. Lured from “Retirement!” SOME months ago we got a several-page letter in our offices commenting on Weird Tales and its contributors. At the end the author, Jack Snow, modestly admitted that he had once sold two little shorts to Weird, in 1927 and 1928. Naturally our curiosity was aroused, we looked him up and found him ensconced just across the street from- us (liter- ally), a writer with the National Broadcasting Company. In the course of subsequent conversations we said half-humorously that since he knew so much about "weird” tales (he really does) why didn’t he. sit down and write one? Which is just what he did and the result— well, you’ve read, or will read, "Second Childhood” your- self. Here is what Mr. Snow has to say about himself : Earliest memory goes back to a day before I could walk or talk when my grandfather, a dentist, fascinated me with a saucerful of quicksilver. A little later I used to watch for the ice-cream wagon which appeared each afternoon rolling down the street from a point Three blocks distant, where I could dimly dis- cern a pole — the North Pole then, and logical origin of the ice-cream man. Later it became a barber pole. Life has been like that ever since. In early 1920’s worried family to death by clambering over the roof erecting radio antennae. Began writing a radio review col- umn for a newspaper while attending Central High School at Piqua, Ohio — hometown I proudly share with the Mills Brothers and ace Don Gentile. Sold two shorts to Weird Tales several years later and have not missed reading more than a half-dozen issues of the magazine !;IIIII!£illl[Ii!Il!l!Ilt!E!!IIIIIlliil!iSilfl!Ei(ll!BtIf IIE!IBI!III!!l!l[lll!llilllBllK!!lilBi.i£; READERS* VOTE A LAN MAH A birthday present FOR TOMMY THE SHONOKINS THE TOMBSTONE SECOND CHILDHOOD A SiP WITH SATAN = LORDS CF THE = GHOSTLANDS 1 IN THE BEGINNING = THE PERIPATETIC ? CORPSE | PLEASE GO V/AY AND LET ME SLEEP = Here's a list of ten stories in this issue. Won't you = let us know which three you consider the best? Just 2. g place the numbers : 1, 2, and 3, respectively, against your 5 = three favorite tales— then clip it out and mail it £ = in to us. E | WEIRD TALES f jjjj 9 Rockefeller Flessg New York City g Slflf!llliI[B!i«UIUI!lft!HlliK((l!IRUE!!Kf(BIIS!fll!SH6!3SiiBlll!Ulltll!in«llS)tBt!liiSbEB

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THE EYRIE 95, since its inception. Worked for various radio stations, landing at NBC in 1943 afterTour- feen months in the Army. A lifelong admirer of L. Frank Baum and his 02 books, I have a huge collection of first editions and have gathered photographs, scrap books, personal letters, etc., which will become a part of a forthcoming Baum biography. Have written a new Oz book, now published, and hope to do one each year in the Baum tradition. Favorite authors are: Baum, Walter de la Mare, Arthur Machen, Frank Owen, Seabury Quinn and Ray Bradbury. T , „ 1 1 jack Snow NEW MEMBERS J org'e M. Noguera, P. O. Box 66, Nagtt&bo, Puerto Rico Dean Mavis, 3147 Broadway, New York, N. Y. James Ristoff, 1571 Fannin Sfc., Beaumont, Tex. James Hummel, 3316 Bagley Ave., Los Angeles S4, Calif. Jeannette Savage, 1680 Geraghty Ave., Los Angeles 33, Calif. Franklin Williams, 748 Glenview Rd., Glendale 2, Calif. V. Charles Yarber, 500 Third St., Venice, 111. Marguerite B. Wood, Brandywine Sanatorium, Mar- sliallton, Del. Natalie Rock, 4442 No. 18th St., Philadelphia, Pa. Harold Chambers, 3414 McManus Ave., Culver City, Calif. Pat Richards, 273 King William, Hamilton, Out., Can. Marguerite Uccello, 18 Way land St., I-Iartford, Conn. May Edgar, 938 Adamson St., S.W., Atlanta, Ga. Ormsby Annan, 248 Lind on Ave., Winnetta, III, Paul Wallen, 91 32. Broad St., Hartford 8, Conn. R. M. Payne, 774 Winnipeg Ave., Winnipeg, Man., Can. Jessie Sisler, 5S21 Superior Ave., Cleveland, O. Don Sippy, Route 1, Box 536, Alderwood, Wash. W. Howard Roth, 211 Square St., Utica, N. Y. Robert Lafontaine, Winter burn, Alta., Can. Richard Quagliato, 117-81 142ud PL, South Ozone PkM N. Y. Arthur William, 11 Kenbury St., Camberwell, Lon- don Se. 5, Eng. Richard Sherman, 2226 A. S. Woodward St., Mil- waukee, Wise. J. Nelson Borland, 3rd, Brooks School, North Mil- dover. Mass. Don F, Ames, R.R. 1, N. 19th St., Mattoon, 111. Walter Dunkelberger, 1443 4th Ave., Fargo, No. Dak. 33. H. Gottschling, 1410 Bellield Ave., Philadelphia 40, Pa. Charles Keith, Sidney, Mont. Charles Detterer, Thornton Lane, Bordentown, N. J. Clara Potter, 1329ft Cherry St., Toledo 2, O. Stanley Buckenski, 989 Washington Ave., Bronx, N. Y. Frederick W. Winter, 634 South West Temple, Salt Lake City \ Utah ■Mr. R. L. BufEee, 493 Lansdowne Ave., Toronto 4, Ont., Can. Agatha B. Lucas, 221 33. Michigan St., Indianapolis 4, Ind. Richard Alnutt, 815 Louisa St., New Orleans 17, La. Paul Carter, 156 S. University St., Blackfoot, Idaho Richard F. Smyder, 156 S. University St., Blackfoot, Idaho Bill Madson, 156 S. University St., Blaekfoot, Idaho Bill Jesse, 552-A 103rd St., Cleveland 8, O. Russell Kamin, 332 Will Carleton Dr., Carleton, Midi. Frank L, Nickerson, 8058 32nd Ave., N.W., Seattle l\ Wash. Mary Ellen McComb, 806 Acacia St., Inglewood, Calif. Harold Rose, 3209 N. W. Luzon, Portland 10, Oregon. 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The Mysterious Influence In The Air You Breathe! Ihe SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE is in the ait you breathe. Deposited in your blood— with each inhalation you take — is the intelligence that directs the course of the planets through the misty reaches of space, and the strange phe- nomenon of life itself. What is it that causes your heart to beat, your lungs to expand and contract ? What mind directs the cells of your being, each in their pur- pose— some to create bone, others tissue and hair? What consciousness pervades these vibra- tory globules of life and gives them awareness of their Cosmic function? Are you one of the millions who have looked beyond yourself for some external Divine Power or agenq'? Have you searched in vain for some outer sign or word of Divine assurance when in doubt or in need? Now learn of the unsus- pected power that exists in every simple breath —and that becomes part of you. The ancient Egyptians believed that the essence of life was borne on the wings of the air. The Bible pro- claims that with the first breath man becomes not just an animated being— but a ' 'livingsoul. ” Try this experiment, and prove aVital Life Force exists in the air. When you are in pain or de- spondent take a deep breath. Hold it as long as comfortable— thennoticethemomentaryrelief. This Amazing Free Book Would you seriously like to know how to drawupon this Intelligence of the Cosmic, with which the air is permeated? You can use it to awaken the creative powers of your mind, and for making life an experi- ence of achievement. Use the coupon below for a free copy of the book, "The Mastery of Life.” It tells how in the privacy of your home you may learn to use these , simple, useful, natural laws. ■, USE THIS GIFT COUFON!®-'®5-"-j :! Scribe Sl.n.t!’.. The Rosicrucians (AMORC1 E Kosicruciall Park, San Jose, California : i I am sincerely interested ia learning how to use the >. E mysterious influences of the universe in the betterment : ;i cf my life. Please send me a f zee copy of the bock,. ' .1 "The Mastery of life.” !• NAME - 1 'I i ‘ ADDRES ' Roskruriam are NOT a religious organization THE S03I£S!TCSANS (AMGRC) SMS JOSE, CALIFORNIA, U. S. A. Please mention Newsstand Fiction Unit when answering advertisements

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Dramatle Episodes from W. Somerset Maugham’s Best- Selling Hm Hovel THE RAZOR’S EDGE • Back from mysterious In « dia, Larry possesses a new power that cures others! Has Ms search for life's hidden secrets succeeded ? ® Marriage to Isabel will give Larry lore, wealth . But when she whispers ? “ 'Won’t you come up ?” he runs . What is he seeking t ®> Other women give, every - thing — to bring Larry hap- piness. They fail. Instead lie s'-ems fascinated with drunken Sophie — ■ broken plaything of Paris. Why? % Isabel is still desperately in love with Larry. Would she have plotted so delib- erately for revenge if she had foreseen this tragedy ? W. Somerset Maugham Dean of living novelists daring playwright of in- ternational fame , author yf “Rain,” “Of Human Bondage,” etc., today stands at the. pinnacle of a brilliant career. ^ What Did Women Want of Him Z The women in Larry's life tried des- perately to help him find happiness. After a journey to India, he acquired miraculous power over others — - so that even the girl whom liquor, love and drugs had de- stroyed could see the greatness shining in him. Here is one of the most amazing stories ever written? The noted author and re- viewer, Glenway Wescott, says: “It will not be worldliness, the humor and stir of dramatic episodes — ■ a seduction, a mir- acle, a murder — but rather Larry's mes- sage of the spirit that will make this book beloved.” Worldly-wise, razor-keen, THE RAZOR'S EDGE lays bare the heart and soul of one of the truly great characters of modern literature. Accept this tremen- dous best-seller free. And with it receive, also free,, JAKE EYRE, described below I YES, yours free? over i,uuu,ooo copies already published! THE RAZOR’S EDGE — the fascinating novel about a passion of which the author says, “no wine is so intoxicating , no love so shattering , no vice so compelling ” The Mystery of Larry Darrell Why did Larry Darrell turn down love, a riches, career, and fling himself mm around the earth in Ms unearthly flf quest? From country to country he W wandered, seeking — what ? Did even W he himself know ? ! Apparently no one had the power to block Ms path — in his frenzied search for “the greatest experience in life” ! But could it ever pay Mm for the sacrifices he had made? f|^ These are questions which, you will probe deep into your own iB heart to answer 1 SOOSC LEAGUE of AMERICA Dept jMFQ-2, Garden City, N. Y» Please send me — FREE — The Razor's Edge (re- tail price in the publisher’s original edition, $2.75) and Jane Eyre. Within 5 days I may return them if I care to, without cost or obligation. Otherwise I will keep them as a gift and continue to receive forthcoming monthly double-selections for a year — at only $1.3 9, plus few cents postage, for BOTH books. |A ' r Orson Welles , fjL’X' ' Joan Fontaine in JHi 20tli Century -Fox “Jane Eyre.” publisher’s edition. The OTHER book is a masterpiece of World literature. These volumes build a matched library of master authors, such as de Maupassant, Oscar Wilde, Zola. Each month's volumes cost $3.50 to $4 ALSO receive-— FREE— -/one Eyre , great novel of passion, mystery — now 2 0th Century-Fox movie starring Orson Welles, Joan Fontaine. Jane Eyre flung herself at Edward Rochester — 'twenty years older in age alone, but a thousand in the lore of love! And he forsook the arms of a French dancer, a Viennese milliner, a countess — all for a love stalked by the most terrible secret that ever cursed two hearts ! On this sensational Double-Gift Offer you get Jane Eyre and The Razor’s Edge — both free! TWO Great Books a Month— For Less Than the Cost of ONE! Each month the Book League sends members TWO books. On© is a MOD- ERN best-seller by a famous author like John Steinbeck, Pearl S. Buck, Ben Ames Williams-— selling at $2.50 up in in the publisher's edition — you get BOTH for §1.391 5-DAY TRIAL— No Obligation Accept The Razor's Edge and Jane Eyre to read free five days. (Since Jane Eyre and the other classics are hooks you will always cherish, you may prefer beautiful BeLuxe Edition. Just indicate in coupon. ) If these two books do not convince you this IS the best book buy in America — -return them, pay nothing. Otherwise, keep both as free gifts; your membership starts with next month’s double selection. Mail coupon now! BOOK LEAGUE OF AMERICA, Dept. NFG-2, Garden City, No Y. Name If under 21, .age, please. Address Zone No. City (if any) ..... State ............... Occupation. ........... □ HANDSOME DE LUXE BBNDiNS. Checkbox if you wish your world’s masterpieces ( one each, month) in simulated leather with silver stamping— for only 5 0c extra monthly. We will then^ also send your FREE gift copy of Jane Eyre in this binding - — at no extra charge. (5) Slightly higher in Canada. Add. ,105 Bond St. , Toronto 2 I Slightly higher m Canada. Add. ,105 Bond st. , Toronto 'I ^