STRANGE TALES AND SCIENCE FICTION

CAVERNS OF HORROR

THE DOOR TO SATURN

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS AUGUST DERLETH H. G. WELLS

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magazine

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HORROR

and strange stories

CONTENTS FOR NOVEMBER

INTRODUCTION . . . . . . - . 4

CAVERNS OF HORROR . Laurence Manning 5

PRODIGY . - . . . Wait Liebscher 30

THE MASK . . . Robert W. Chambers 34

THE LIFE-AFTER-DEATH OF MR. THADDEUS WARDE

. Robert Barbour Johnson 50

THE FEMININE FRACTION . David Grinnell 66

DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT . Nathaniel Hawthorne 71

THE PACER . Augtist Derleth 81

LOVECRAFT AND “THE PACER” (excerpt) . August Derleth 91

THE MOTH ...» . . . H. G. Wells 93

THE DOOR TO SATURN . Clark Ashton Smith 103

IT IS WRITTEN (Readers’ Letters and Editor’s Comment) . . 121

While the greatest diligence has been used to ascertain the owners of rights, and to secure necessary permissions, the editor and publisher wish to offer their apologies in any possible case of accidental infringements.

Robert A. W. Lowndes, Editor

MAGAZINE OF HORROR. Vol. I, No. 6. November 1964 (whole number 6). Published bi-monthly by Health Knowledge, Inc. Executive and editorial offices at 119 Fifth Avenue, New York 3. N. Y. Second class entry pending, Buffalo. New York. Annual subscription (6 issues) *2.50 in the U. S.. Canada and Pan American Union. Foreign $3.00. Single copy. 5uc. Manuscripts accompanied by stamped, self-addressed envelopes will be carefully considered, but the publisher and editors will not be responsible for loss or damage. <S 1964 by Health Knowl¬ edge, Inc. All rights reserved under Universal, Intern ' ' * - ' — h

ivcntions. Printed in U. S. A.

3

I wish that the relatively few of you who have objected to our use of tales from the old masters, not on the grounds that they are not good, but that they are “readily available every¬ where” could see the influx of letters I receive from readers who welcome these stories with joy and say they have not seen them before.

It reminds me of my own experience back in 1930, when I first began to read the science fiction 'magazines regularly. The letter departments carried letters from readers, pleading for re¬ prints, and letters saying, no, these are all readily available at any library. I noted the authors whose stories were asked for: Verne (novels not reprinted in the magazines), Wells (ditto), A. Merritt, Ray Cummings, Garrett P. Serviss (unreprinted novels) , Homer Eon Flint, Austin Hall — these were just a few. I was living in Darien, Conn., at the time, and we had what I had thought a very good library there. (There was a bigger one in Stamford, but in those days, with the Depression just start¬ ing, regular trips to Stamford were not feasible — and I wasn’t that much of a hiker.)

What could I find there in Darien? Poe — yes; all his fic¬ tion. Verne — there was Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, The Mysterious Island, From the Earth to the Moon, A- round the World in Eighty Days, Michael Strogoff — that was all. Wells — The Time Machine and Other Stories, Tales of Space and Time, When the Sleeper Wakes, Men Like Gods, The Island of Dr. Moreau, and various mainstream novels. (I didn’t appreciate The Sea Lady in those days, although they had it.) A. Merritt, Ray Cummings, Garrett P. Serviss, Homer Eon Flint, Austin Hall, and later when I looked for Ralph Milne Far¬ ley, Otis Adelbert Kline, and George Allan England — nothing. There were some Tarzan books, but of the Burroughs Mars series, only The Warlord of Mars. (I was very fortunate, I learned later — what if it had been only The God of Mars, which ends on one of the most fiendish cliffhangers imagina¬ ble?) In fact, most of these science fiction and fantasy authors just weren’t heard of at all.

Some of this material could be found in bookstores — but (Turn To Page 126)

4

( ^averna o} error

L if oCa u i

c* Wanning

First seen in colkboration with the late Fletcher Pratt ( The City of the Living Dead, Science Wonder Stories, May 1930), Laurence Manning became a favorite with science fiction readers when his series of tales. The Man Who Awoke, appeared in Wonder Stories in 1933. The demands for more from his typewriter brought forth another series, the tales of the “Stranger Club”, which appeared in the same magazine in 1933, '34, and c55. In the first of these, The Call of the Mech-Men (WS, November 1933), we learn that the “Stranger Club” is a very exclusive little society, which does not wel¬ come strangers at all. There is no sign on the door, and the bell does not ring; you have to have a key to enter. The author explains: “You see, this club has a particular purpose for existing. The meaning of its name is obvious upon entering the place. The door opens upon a large hall from which branch off three huge rooms. Close to the ceiling along the hall in large letters, runs this motto: — TRUTH IS STRAN¬ GER THAN FICTION.” Caverns of Horror is the second of the five “Stranger Club” tales, and our thanks go to Richard Kyle for remind¬ ing us of it

SOME TIME has passed since I first told you about the Stranger Club up on West 53rd Street. I have spent part of it in the great lounge listening to stories of one sort or another, but they must wait, for, start¬

ing in this room last month, I have been led into as extraordi¬ nary an adventure as any I have been told and I must tell it as it befell. Perhaps the telling may help me to forget.

I suppose women are more

5

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

curious than men about some things. Quiet, reserved men who do not tell all they know, for instance, drive them frantic with curiosity. Many a man owes a pretty wife to the mere fact that she could not find out enough about him any other way than by marrying him. These are not idle remarks, for Smithers (though still single) is just that sort. I saw him once at a char¬ ity ball at the Plaza and you could fairly see the feminine fingers twitch to get at him — but then, Smithers seldom at¬ tended dances and the word “mystery” was written on the carriage of his body and in the slow amused smile that looked out from his handsome face. But the oddest thing about Smithers is that men feel the mystery as well. At the club, ev¬ ery one treats him with exag¬ gerated familiarity whereas no one knows him really well. He has a curious knack for imper¬ sonal friendship. This story is largely about Smithers.

It started at the Stranger Club on a Friday evening. My friend Seeman was back from his latest trip to Africa and I had been licking my lips in an¬ ticipation of a good varn. So far, however, he had only mumbled something in his meek, quiet voice about “trouble with the cannibals” up some river or other where he had been pilot¬ ing an expedition looking for oil. He had admitted that it was “a

sort of a war” and that he had had to “pot a few of ’em,” also that three of his Basuto porters had “been scragged.” That is just exactly like Seeman. To think of him doing things in a heroic way seems absurd. How nature ever managed to crowd his adventurous temperament and brave mind into that dried- up, meek-looking little body of his is a puzzle. Also present at the club that evening was Colo¬ nel Marsh, and he and Seeman and I were wandering around the great lounge talking about Africa and examining some of the heads which the Colonel had bagged a year ago and pre¬ sented to the Club. In particular was the head of a huge white rhinoceros that glared down from the wall on the right of the great fireplace.

SMITHERS HAD been read¬ ing and drinking whiskey sodas in the library and we had the lounge to ourselves. We had, I suppose, talked loudly enough for Smithers to overhear us in the next room. At all events, as we stood admiring the rhino, we became aware that Smithers was beside us. We eyed him si¬ lently for a moment. He was staring hard at the head on the wall and finally turned around to face Colonel Marsh with that teasing amused smile on his face. Marsh’s pipe-stained mus¬ tache bristled and his face grew redder than usual.

Caverns

“Quite a beast!” said Smith- ers, with a half-smile.

“Weighed three tons — shook the earth when he charged!” snapped the colonel.

“But I suppose you had a good heavy rifle?”

“My Martinson express - wished it had been a howitzer!”

Smithers raised his eyebrows politely and sauntered off, leav¬ ing the worthy colonel sputter¬ ing with rage.

“The dam’ puppy! I’d like to see him face a charging rhino!”

We sympathized warmly, for both Seeman and myself had been puzzled by Smithers re¬ marks, and Seeman, who ought to know, told Marsh that he rather envied him that head. Almost any one except a fool, I thought, knew that the white rhino was a prize from both the point of view of rarity and risk. Now certainly Smithers was not a fool. I began to wonder even then and curiosity was at the back of my mind during the next hour while we plied the heated colonel with cooling drink and smoothed his ruffled sensibili¬ ties in the quiet tap room. Smithers had not actually said anything calculatd to insult, but his attitude had suggested sheer scorn, and the colonel fumed long over it. I left Seeman and Colonel Marsh after a while and sauntered into the lounge once more. There, legs braced apart and arms in pockets, stood Smithers in front of the rhino.

Of Horror 7

as though trying to stare down those glassy eyes. I thought to myself that if Colonel Marsh should happen in, there would be a certain explosion and, of course, even as I glanced around at the doorway, there he was — red and bristling!

I shuddered and closed my eyes. When I opened them a- gain, the two were facing each other — the one lean and ironi¬ cal, the other stout and furious. Smithers put his hand on Marsh’s shoulder paternally. “You must come out to my place and have some real snooting sometime!”

“Take your hand away, sir! Dam’ puppy! You must be drunk, sir!”

“Never more sober. But what’s the matter? Don’t you like shooting?”

THE COLONEL boiled over and stamped away in a rage. Smithers turned to us.

“I thought he liked shooting! You two might care to come out, perhaps?”

“Smithers, you are drunk! You live in a respectable Long Island suburb — what do you propose to shoot?”

Smithers smiled maddeningly. “I’ll bet one thousand dollars against a forty-four dum-dum that I’ll jjive you more game to shoot — and bigger game — than ever was found in Africa!”

From the other side of the room the colonel’s snort sounded

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

like a maddened beast. Smithers turned languidly toward him.

“That goes for you as well, Marsh!”

“I ought to take it — just to teach you a lesson — I will take it! You and Seeman hear?”

“But Marsh, he’s drunk — must be!”

“Drunk or sober, it’ll cost him one thousand!”

I ^shrugged. After all, Smith¬ ers was rioi enough and certain¬ ly deserved it.

“All right — is it a bet, Smith¬ ers?”

‘Right you are! When shall we say? This weekend?”

Seeman had an engagment, so we made it for the following week. Smithers looked slowly from one to the other of us and his face grew serious.

“Bring elephant guns and ex¬ plosive shells,” he said soberly, “and I’d suggest leather leggings and heavy shooting jackets. I’ll expect you Friday evening!”

And he saunterd out of the room, leaving us half-amused and wholly angry at him. Big game shooting on Long Island! Well, we were going to be there (we decided) and we would take the man’s money without the slightest compunction!

“After all, a thousand dollars is worth going for,” said See¬ man mildly and mixed himself another drink. I puzzled a mo¬ ment over the incident. If the man had wanted us there with¬ out fail, he could not have han¬

dled the invitation better than he had. But why did he want us? Certainly not for big game, I decided. Then what? Could it be to protect himself from some¬ thing? Perhaps the man had en- mies — unscrupulous ones. Pos¬ sibly he had fallen foul of gang¬ sters or racketeers in some way, although it was difficult to im¬ agine the aristocratic Smithers mixed up in such matters.

During the following week I became more and more con¬ vinced that the invitation was serious. I phoned Seeman who pooh-poohed me out of counte¬ nance.

“He’ll set us shooting mice or rabbits — that’s about it.”

“Well . . . you may be right. Rather humorous to shoot a mouse with an elephant gun, though.”

He laughed. “Good, man! Well take along the artillery and we’ll dress the part, eh? This will tickle the colonel!”

AND SO ON Friday after¬ noon we gathered at Marsh’s a- partment and commenced pre- arations. We wore leather reeches and leggings and See¬ man had heavy knee boots. We provided ourselves with pith helmets and each wore leather bandoliers filled with cartridges. We emptied two pints of the colonel’s Bourbon during the dressing, and under such inspi¬ ration I insisted we each thrust two revolvers into our belts.

Caverns Of Horror

When we staggered down to the car with our heavy rifles, we must have made an extraordi¬ nary picture. The doorman stared and the Negro elevator boy swallowed his chewing gum at sight of us and almost wreck¬ ed the car before we got down to the street level. Out we marched across the sidewalk and into the car, while passers-by stopped and rubbed their eyes unbelievingly at the sight: I drove until we were across the 59th Street bridge and then stepped on the accelerator.

It was late afternoon when we arrived at Paulings, on the north shore of Long Island, and asked a lonely and bored traffic po¬ liceman for direction. He gave it as though he wondered what we might want at Smithers’. He knew the house well enough; one could tell that. It was close to sunset when we turned up Smithers’ drive. His place was rather unusual — a large area of woods through which the drive curved and autumn tints on the trees made it doubly attractive; then a broad sweep of lawn, tree-dotted, with the house set on a knoll and beyond that a small lake in a dell enclosed by all pine trees. We just had a glimpse as the day died and then we were at the door and a lean-facd butler took us over from the footman who opened to us. We were led into what must have served Smithers for a library.

“Mr. Smithers is expecting you and will be down directly,” said the butler as he left us.

He came within the minute and stood in the doorway, cool and smiling eyeing our equip¬ ment with particular care, it seemed to me. I wondered sud¬ denly how sober he had been at the club a few nights ago, and evidently, the colonel was thinking of the same thing, for he had the grace to blurt out, ‘Were here for that thousand dollars of yours, Smithers — hope you haven’t forgotten!”

“Rather not! But first you must judge of the hunting; after¬ wards we settle the bet!”

“Oh come, Smithers, what nonsense! Do you still keep up the pretense of big game here on Long Island?”

Smithers gave him a quizzical look. “We eat first — hunt at night,” said he. “Would you like to wash up?”

ALL THROUGH dinner, Colonel Marsh and I endeavor¬ ed to pin our host down to the details of the “big game” he pro¬ posed to present us, but he was very noncommittal. “Is it tame?” I asked. “Some animals you have fenced in here on your se- atte?” He shook his head at that.

‘Wildcat?” snapped the colo¬ nel. Another negative. Seeman’s thoughts were unreadable be¬ hind that fevered yellow face of his. But over our dessert he ask¬ ed the most startling question of

10

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

all. “Huntin’ man tonight, Smith- ers?” I gasped, but Smithers smiled more blandly than ever and shook his head.

“Don’t you think you had bet¬ ter tell us, so that we can be prepared?” added Seeman. “That is, if the whole thing real¬ ly isn’t a joke of some kind.”

“You will have time to judge for yourselves later on.” Smith¬ ers said simply.

“Damn it all! It’s all very well for you, but how about us?”

“ Afraid , Colonel?” asked Smithers lazily.

The good colonel’s neck swelled visibly and became a deep purple tint. His mustache quivered, and the lips set firm¬ ly. Not another question did he ask, and it was half an hour be¬ fore he spoke to Smithers again. During that time there was something upon our host’s mind — we could all see it. He was nervous and without his usual poise. Several times he cleared his throat as if to say something, but changed his mind every time. Finally he rose to his feet and shepherded us into a curi¬ ous round room — not more than twelve feet across. Upon the walls were weapons of every conceivable description. Along the baseboard ran drawers which were filled with ammuni¬ tion. Four cushioned seats were set in the wall in pairs — sug¬ gestive of bunks aboardship. From under one of these, Smith¬ ers drew whiskey and soda and

four glasses ajnd pulled down a small folding shelf to set them on.

“We will start out from this room in a few minutes,” he an¬ nounced.

And now we all, I think, be¬ gan to wonder together whether something serious might not lie ahead of us. What it was puzzled us to imagine. A barred and grated French door was set opposite the entrance, which had been closed. To this I went and peered out at the darkness. I could make out lights in hous¬ es some distance away and the stars revealed the edge of the woods. As I looked, Smithers came over and drew heavy cur¬ tains, smiling at me mysterious¬ ly-

We joined him around the ta¬ ble and sipped our drinks qui¬ etly while Smithers went over our equipment carefully and suggested that we each carry a revolver, bringing the necessary number down from the walls.

“But we already have one each,” expostulated the colonel.

“These throw .44 explosive bullets,” said Smithers quietly.

THE WHISKEY was strong, for the floor seemed unsteady once or twice — but I thought nothing of that at the time. The room began to feel oppressive and close. I suggested that the window be opened, and Smith¬ ers looked at me portentously.

“You don’t know what you

Caverns Of Horror

11

ask,” he remarked, and Seeman cocked his head slightly sideways and studied him with his ex- ' pressionless eyes. Colonel Marsn fumed a second and then ex¬ ploded with accumulated an¬ noyance. “Hr-r-rmph!” he said.

iou young devil! How long are you going to keep us here? It’s all stuff and nonsense — it is, don’t deny it! I’ve a mind to leave your house this instant!”

His face fiery, he stamped to the door by which we had en¬ tered the room and seized the handle. It was locked!

“I really think, Smithers,” put in Seeman quietly, “that you’d better explain!”

He looked from one to the other of us, smiling more teas- ingly than ever. “In five more minutes we will leave this room,” was his answer. “We will go out and commence what will be the most exciting and perhaps the most dangerous hunting you have ever experi¬ enced. When we return, Colonel Marsh here will gladly pay me the bet.”

The room was stifling by now and my eardrums throbbed and my head ached. Smithers drew from a drawer the largest hand- flashes I had ever seen and tried them, one by one. They cast great, searching beams of light against the narrow walls of the already well-lighted room. Si¬ lently he handed one to each of us. Then he prepared one more drink all around and bade us

down it. It tasted queer and Seeman eyed him sharply at the first sip. Smithers flushed slight¬ ly.

“It’s all right,” said he. “As a matter of fact, it’s medicine. We’ll need it where were going.” He held up his own empty-

glass as he spoke. When we had drained our glasses and set

them down, he cleared them a- way and made the room ship¬ shape once again. Then he op¬ ened a drawer and drew out two dynamite bombs, placing them on the floor beside the curtained French door. The floor jarred slightly just a second before he did so and the walls seemed to quiver an instant — a matter which puzzled me and would have made me more cur¬ ious than it did had my head not ached so or my ears not been drumming so loudly to the pulse of my heart. Smithers pulled aside the curtains and lifted a heavy bar which kept the door shut. We crowded out into the night.

II

IT WAS BLACK outdoors and smelt musty, nor was the air so fresh as it had been earli¬ er. The sky was evidently over¬ cast, also, for not a light could be seen in any direction, though I strained my eyes. It was death¬ ly still and none of the usual night sounds could be heard. The nameless oppression upon

12

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

my senses became more pro¬ nounced than ever and my ears hurt me when I swallowed. Smithers said, “It’s rocky going, for a bit; watch your stepr and ' turned his flash on the ground.

We were, I imagined, going down the slope to the little pond behind the house, but I hadn’t remembered it as being so steep. And there was hardly a vestige of earth over the jocks — and no vegetation whatever. This puzzled me at the outset, but after we had walked a good half mile down a steep boulder- strewn incline, I was much more than puzzled — I was amazed. Smithers silenced one or two at¬ tempts at conversation, and we stepped as quietly as we could, but must have made noise enough to be heard a mile away in that quiet place. Presently he halted and turned off his light. We gathered around him in the intense unearthly darkness.

“Now we must go carefully — use your ears as much as your eyes,” he whispered.

“Use them on what?” grunt¬ ed Colonel Marsh from the black void.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not, man? Is it secret?”

“There are no words in the language to tell you — I have been here before and I saw . . .

I can’t tell you what. Don’t you suppose I would if I could?”

“Will you tell me frankly,” put in Seeman, “are you serious ... not trying to play a joke?”

Smithers groaned impatiently. “If you would stop whispering and listen and look you might see for yourself!”

As he spoke, I saw something and gripped Seeman’s arm harcl It was a faint, distant light, rather phosphorescent, I imag¬ ined, which seemed to float through the air a hundred yards away. It was receding and van¬ ished shortly after I saw it. Memories thronged to my mind of tales my old Scotch nurse used to tell me when I was a child . . . will-o’-the-wisps! Sil¬ ly, perhaps, but what rational explanation was there?

WE HAD all four of us seen it, evidently, for not a man moved — we barely breathed. Then three tiny sparks showed at some distance quite undeter¬ minable in the darkness and seemed to play with each other, dancing in a dreamy pattern a- ganist the heavy velvet black. We heard Smithers shuffle for¬ ward cautiously and followed him in a bunch. For perhaps five minutes he continued — seeming to feel his way with his feet.

“This is as far as I came be¬ fore,” he said. “It drops away here sharply.” As he spoke, he flashed his light down at his feet and we started back at the sight of a sheer cliff twenty feet or more deep, with a flat area extending away below into the darkness. The shock of sudden

Caverns Of Horror

13

light staggered us. Then the light flicked off and we could see nothing for a full minute. But we heard something! As if in answer to the light signal, a hissing began far away to the right and Smithers whispered, “Get your guns and lights ready i

I flashed on my light at once and its great beam cut a hole through the darkness down to¬ ward the hissing. Something grayish-yellow moved there . . . was approaching. It seemed an enormous distance away but came on at a terrific rate of speed. Then it began to take shape and form to my eyes and ... it was indescribable. A huge head filled with needle-like teeth and soft-looking, shapeless legs — that may give some idea. Tne mouth was open *and its cavernous size shut off almost all view of the body. I had hardly time to gasp before Colo¬ nel Marsh’s elephant gun went off like a thunderclap. He must have missed, for the onrush did not pause a second. The hissing was like steam escaping from a boiler now and the Thing flung itself against the rockv bulwark as Seeman and Smithers fired point-blank at its open mouth. But on it came, the momentum of its charge, I suppose, enabl¬ ing it to give one last upward leap that brought it half over the ledge. We leaped away as the explosive bullets burst in¬ side it, and my torch wavered

off the huge body an instant.

When I turned it back again in fear and trembling, half-ex¬ pecting to see it charging me, I illuminated the great mass ly¬ ing inert half over the precipice.

“Hold the light steady,” Smithers called to me. “Let’s try to pull it all the way up.”

THE THREE of them tugged and strained for a few minutes and succeeded in moving it two feet. I moved up close and start¬ ed back at the odd odor — like spoiled eggs. The Thing was easily twelve feet long and must have weighed a ton. It was brownish yellow and hairlesg. But the mouth was the startling part of it, for the jaws were like two semi-circles three feet in di¬ ameter and the teeth like so many spears set in it — hun¬ dreds of them. Somewhere I vaguely remembered seeing a mouth and teeth like that.

“Great God, Smithers! What is the thing?”

“You know as much as I. Do you suppose we could get it back to the gun room?”

“Better phone the police! A beast like this roaming the coun¬ tryside . . .”

“Hmmm!” said Smithers. “Quiet a moment!”

We strained our ears and eyes. One of the distant lights was floating toward us! As we looked, it rose over our heads and swooped down. One of the guns roared out as my light re-

14

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

vealed a black, bat-like flying creature. The body twitched and tumbled at my feet. I stoop¬ ed and picked it up in amaze¬ ment, for its mouth and teeth were strongly suggestive of those of the great beast we had killed. From its forehead, a long springy tendon, dangled a bul¬ bous lamp of phosphorescence! Now I remembered where I had seen such forms of life — photo¬ graphs and paintings of deep-sea monsters. They were for all the world like it.

“We must get this great beast thrown back below!” announced Smithers suddenly and with a- larm straining in his voice. “For (Sod’s sake lend a hand!” As he spoke, he began thrusting and pushing frantically and stopped a second to call out to me, “And put that light out!”

I did so and we all helped him at his task. It took us a full two minutes in the dark to move the carcass a foot or two nearer the edge, where it slowly top¬ pled over and thumped down to the ground below. “Now keep quiet for your lives!” whis¬ pered Smithers from out of the sudden blackness.

I heard something then — a far-away hissing that approach¬ ed until I could hear the soft thudding of great shapeless

!>aws below — then a sudden oud hiss and the sound of jaws crunching on food. After a few' seconds, the sounds ceased and another distant hissing was aud¬

ible and still another in a dif¬ ferent direction, both approach¬ ing. We were not breathing at all by now, I’m sure of it, and the hair on the back of my neck was bristling like a mastiff s. Suddenly, a furious snarling and crunching and scrambling broke out below us as the enormous beasts quarreled over their grue¬ some .meal and so dark ana ut¬ ter was my blindness and so taut my nerves that when I felt a touch on my arm, I almost screamed aloud. But it was See- man pulling me away. He put his mouth to my ear and breath¬ ed: “Smithers says to get back while we can.”

WE DARED no light, but Smithers seemed to know the way, and we stumbled, sweat- sodden, back up the rocky slope as quietly and quickly as we could. It took us fifteen minutes to come to the house — which was itself completely shrouded in the darkness — and the only way I knew we were there was by the feel of the doorway and the cold iron of the barred door. This was slammed to behind us and the heavy bar let down and the curtain pulled across before Smithers flicked on the electric lights. And even then, he ut¬ tered no word until he had pulled and adjusted the heavy curtain so that no light should shine through into that horror- ridden night outside.

Not until then did I realize

Caverns Of Horror

15

that I held clutched in my hand the dead body of the luminous bat, but once I did notice it, I smelt it. So did the others. It was a pretty bad stench, as such

mings go.

“Throw it outside,” said the colonel.

“No ... I have an electric refrigerator here. Let’s keep it for examination tomorrow,” and Smithers pulled out another drawer to reveal a compact elec¬ tric ice-box. Then he busied him¬ self wrapping the weird thing in wax paper and seemed to me to ask needless advice and to be attempting to keep all three of us watching him — as though he hoped we might not notice some mysterious matter he wished concealed. When the ice-box was closed, he examined See- man’s rifle and compared it with Colonel Marsh’s. That left me free to look about and he no¬ ticed it — or so I felt — and sug¬ gested that we needed a drink or two all around. He took a long time preparing them, and before we were half through downing the first, he suggested a second.

Seeman looked at his watch. ‘Twelve-thirty! No more for me. I’ll be turning in about now, if you don’t mind.”

Colonel Marsh glanced up sharply. “Before the police are notified? Do you realize that those beasts out there are a threat to the safety of thousands of unsuspecting people?”

Smithers cleared his throat nervously. “Who would believe you?” he asked.

“I’d bring them here and show ’em. Bring a regiment!”

“Tonight?” Smithers smiled scornfully.

That aid stump us, for obvi¬ ously, no one would come until morning — and what could we do to protect all Long Island between now and morning?

“But you’ve seen them before! Why hasn’t something been done before this? Where could the things have come from?”

SMITHERS’ FACE became teasingly earnest. “At dawn to¬ morrow, we will go out through this door and you will under¬ stand why nothing has been done,” said he.

“I’m going to bed, then,” an¬ nounced Seeman and strode to the door. It was still locked and he turned impatiently toward Smithers, who walked slowly up to him and fumbled for a key in his pocket. He took forever to get it into the lock and then he did not turn it, but as if a sudden thought had struck him, he said: “How about that bet. Colonel?”

That worthy’s mustache bristl¬ ed and his face became suffused with the color of annoyance. T suppose you’ve won,” he admit¬ ted, “but it’s a terrible thing to claim you have shown us dan¬ gerous beasts roaming in this su¬ burb and in the same breath

16

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

deny that any steps should be taken to protect the citizens!”

And then I felt the floor give a slight jolt and I saw a gun that was hanging on the wall beside me quiver slightly. At the same instant, Smithers turned the key in the door and threw it open. We walked through the hall and into the library. Before we were shown up to our rooms for the night, Smithers assured us very earnestly once more that he knew what he was doing and that he would ask us not to make fools of ourselves by phon¬ ing the police then. “After you have looked over the ground tomorrow,” he added, “you may do as you please — you will be puzzled, at least.”

Colonel Marsh grunted, thought for a moment, and sub¬ sided dubiously.

SPEAKING FOR myself I slept little, being too excited for rest, and at the first sign of dawn, I rose and looked out of the win¬ dow in my room. From it I could see one comer of the lake and the slope down to it. Be¬ yond rose a mere handful of pine trees and they screened — another house beyond! Where then, had we seen the beasts last night? I sat there bemused for half an hour and then dress¬ ed, descended to the library, and discovered Colonel Marsh fum¬ ing un and down the room. To mv “Good morning!” he glared silently.

“Have you seen it? It’s some foolishness of Smithers, depend on it!”

"What do you mean?”

“There is no such place as we thought we saw last night!”

“Oh, come!”

“Come out and see for your¬ self, man!”

But Seeman entered then, and a few minutes later Smithers’ butler announced that we might have early breakfast if we wish¬ ed. Mr. Smithers would, he indi¬ cated, sleep another hour. It was not yet seven. We ate hurriedly and made for the gunroom, which we found as we had left it. We pulled the curtains apart and opened the French doors upon the garden. Before us the ground sloped away — rock- strewn, it is true, but the rocks were in ledges and beautifully planted with dwarf and curious sorts of evergreens. At the foot of the incline gleamed the little lake and beyond that the pines marked the edge of the estate. I mentioned that I had seen another house beyond that again, but we all wanted to ex¬ plore and see for ourselves. In ten minutes we were at the edge of the pine woods and looking out on several houses spaced in half-acre plots and a highway beyond!

What could be the explana¬ tion? Back and forth we hunted — Seeman suggesting that there might be a large cave opening, but we found no possibility of

Caverns Of Horror

17

this — lawns and shrubbery borders were neat and omnipre sent. Yet somewhere here, the three of us, a few hours ago, had been in deadly danger of our lives!

Very much startled and full of wonder, we returned to the house and passed through the gunroom. Seeman stopped sud¬ denly as we entered the labora¬ tory. We looked up expectantly. “No,” he announced to himself, “it couldn’t be that ... or could it?”

“What?”

“I was thinking . . . I’ve seen some queer things in the East — India and elsewhere — you don’t suppose Smithers made us imagine all that last night?”

I laughed aloud, but Seeman’s expressionless stare seemed to indicate some slight doubt, at least. As we stood there, Smith¬ ers came up behind the colonel at the doorway.

“Been out looking around?”

“Hr-r-rmph!”

"Want to phone the police. Colonel?” and his smile seemed like a match to that worthy’s temper. I don’t know what he didn’t accuse Smithers of — dab¬ bling in magic, attempting to win a bet by mesmerism, fraud, poor sportmanship, and much more.

Smither smiled. “Have you looked in the ice-box where we left the smelly bird?”

Colonel Marsh started visibly “By George!” and he was gone.

WE FOLLOWED and found him in the gunroom trying to find the right drawer. Smithers went forward and pulled out the right drawer. Smithers went forward and pulled out the pro¬ per compartment and opened the air-tight cover. Then we held our noses for dear life, for the .stench was frightful and Smithers reached a long knife that hung near by on the wall and lifted something dark brown and gruesome on the point. It was decaying by sec¬ onds as we stared, and we had just time for a glimpse of the outlines before they softened. Pieces dripped off onto the box beneath. “Ugh!” said Smithers, and let it all drop out of sight. He closed the cover.

Colonel Marsh stared at the closed box as though he had seen a rabbit produced from a magician’s hat. Then he strode over to his rifle leaning against the wall, and opened the breach. “It must be true,” he grunted and put the weapon back, to stalk in dignity back to the li¬ brary.

“Don’t suppose you’ll tell,” drawled Seeman.

Smithers merely smiled.

When we returned to the li¬ brary, we found the colonel writing in his check bode on the side table. He tore out the check, waved it dry and hand¬ ed it to Smithers who accepted it gravely. “Was it really as we saw it last night?”

18

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Those beasts still exist now?”

Smithers nodded, seemed a- bout to speak, changd his mind, and nodded again.

I was so curious by now that I thought I should burst. But when Seeman drawled that he thought he would start back to town, I agreed. It was madden¬ ing to stay here and have no way of learning anything more. Better to try to forget the whole affair. The colonel packed his things at the same time, and when we got to the door, our car had been brought around for us. We got in silently and Smithers stood beside the car bidding us good-by.

I started the engine and wav¬ ed my hand. Smithers leaned on the window and said: “This is Saturday. If you three are at the Stranger Club about this time of the morning next Satur¬ day, you might hear from me a- gain.” And he tinned and start¬ ed back to the house.

As we rolled along through Long Island traffic, we discuss¬ ed the matter and agreed to be there — though what possible explanation could he have for what seemed to us an insoluble mystery?

Ill

THE FOLLOWING Satur¬ day I was at the Stranger Club a few minutes after nine and

found Colonel Marsh stamping about through the empty rooms before me.

“Where’s Seeman?” he de¬ manded, and without waiting for an answer, continued pacing up and down. “Not that I really suppose Smithers will come or send any word — the most thoughtless young whippersnap- per I ever knew! Here I am wasting a whole day waiting for nothing, and no one here to get me a drink!”

I was full of curiosity myself, but could not help smiling at the colonel. Somehow our adventure of a week ago seemed far away and unreal and — not very seri¬ ous. We rather looked forward to an explanation, I believe. Great Heaven! I marvel now that I could so soon have forgot¬ ten that three-foot mouth set with a thousand teeth! But so we are made. The club stew¬ ard arrived at nine-thirty, and the colonel blew him up until a drink was placed in his hands; after that he grew calmer, and presently Seeman arrived. We sat around in chairs and fidget¬ ed for half an hour. The colonel was. in fact, just rising to his feet with the announcement that he would waste no more time on wild geese when the front door opened and we heard footsteps approaching. We turned as one and saw — Smithers’ butler. He came forward and handed Colo¬ nel Marsh an envelope and re¬ tired to the hall where he wait-

Caverns Of Horror

19

ed patiently while the envelope was tom open and a dozen type¬ written sheets spread out. We three put our heads together and read. When we were half through, Seeman called to the butler: “Are you waiting for us?”

“The master said you might be coming out to Paulings. The chauffeur has the big town car outside, sir.”

“Then let’s start now!” I cried. We can finish this on the way out.”

We reached for hats and coats and rushed out to the limousine at the curb. It started immedi¬ ately at a speed which increased when we had finished the man¬ uscript and had commenced to urge the chauffeur to hurry up. He half turned in his seat to look curiously back at us, but the butler beside him never showed any hint that he was in¬ terested — sat stiffly looking straight ahead.

This is the letter Smithers had written, addressed to all three of us by name:

PERHAPS YOU have not yet guessed the explanation of your adventure last week. It was a little cheeky of me to make you guess, but I have my reasons. Those animals, of course, do not roam Long Island. They are on a different level of existence — about two miles different. Now have .you guessed? The gunroom

is my elevator — perhaps you noticed the floor shake as it came to rest? Down below the earth is a cavern of sorts. Here dwell the beasts that we shot.

I first came upon the entrance making my rock garden and climbed into a mere crack in the rock that led underneath my own cellar, then turned abruptly downward. The walls were smooth and showed signs of an¬ cient heat, so that perhaps it was once (thousands of years ago) a vent for some prehistoric volcano. I blasted an entrance into it directly from the cellar and spent my days and nights exploring down its sheer depths with ropes and ladders support¬ ed on iron bars driven into the walls. Month after month I worked and hardly believed the depth I reached. I came to the bottom five thousand feet below and found the great cavern you mistook for a Long Island land¬ scape in the dark. This was two years ago.

I determined to keep my find a secret and have all the fun of exploring to myself, but a mile’s climb is no fun at all and I spent a good many thousand dollars arranging an electric lift and, finally, smoothing the walls and building an elevator cage in the form of a room. I do not know exactly what I intended — per¬ haps using the cavern, brilliantly lighted, for a grand ballroom or a theater. The true meaning of my discovery did not become

20

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

apparent until all that prelimi¬ nary business was finished. I had had the workmen brought* from a distance and discharged them in the hope that no one would believe any of them if they did talk. I also discharged all my servants, finding the good ones positions elsewhere, and hired a new staff who know nothing of the shaft or of the secret use of the innocent-looking gunroom, into whioh I retired for long per¬ iods and locked the door.

About six months ago, I armed myself with flashlight and lunch and descended to make my first exploring trip. I followed the course we took last Friday and came to the cliff. It is easy to climb down it and I did so, swinging my feeble light in awe over that great rocky plain and up to the blackness of the lofty cavern roof. I heard the hissing noise approach without fear, un¬ til my light revealed the charg¬ ing monster at scarcely a hun¬ dred yards distant! I was total¬ ly unprepared for any danger and dropped the light to scram¬ ble panic-stricken up to safety. Here I stopped, panting, to see the still-buming light blotted out bv the body of the attacker. The flash was ground to pieces and I began to wonder how safe I might be even there when a second beast charged and a fur¬ ious fight broke out below me in the absolute darkness. I took advantage of the noise to make good my retreat and climbed

the long hill to where I thought the elevator was. Only it wasn’t.

I HAD two matches in my pocket (no more, even though I am a pipe smoker ) and I lit one to find myself in absolutely un¬ known territory. I imagine that I lost my head in the blackness down there and stumbled aim¬ lessly for I know not how long, most of the way downhill again. Presently I bumped into a rocky wall and groped around to find myself in a tunnel about twenty feet across. I knew this was not the right direction and was a- bout to turn and retrace my blind steps when my eyes, enor¬ mously sensitized by the con¬ stant dark, caught the faintest hint of redness on ahead. Per¬ haps the most foolish thing I could have done was to go for¬ ward to see what the light por¬ tended — but a man lost in the dark has no choice; he must follow the light even if it be a dim ghost of a gleam. My light led me half a mile to a cavern that felt large, though I could see none of it. What I saw was a sea of faint light.

Close down on the ground it lay. I reached down my hand and touched something that crumbled and a stench assailed my nostrils that made me giddy. I walked in light up to the ankles, as though it were water. This, please, a mile or more be¬ low the surface of the earth — without benefit of rain or sun.

Caverns Of Horror

21

For the light was obviously

Ehosphorescent and betokened fe of some sort.

I was nauseated by the odor and weary. A sudden fear sent me scurrying back to make sure I could find the tunnel entrance again, for I knew that I must return. Further exploration could wait until I could equip myself properly. First I must find the elevator cage. I groped my way back along the tunnel and never really knew when I came out of it into the inner cave. But the ground began ris¬ ing and felt boulder-strewn and I hoped that this fact might guide me. It did, after a fashion, and an hour later when I had despaired of ever succeeding. I lit my second and last match and saw my objective twenty feet away in the half-lit gloom. I entered and pulled the ascend¬ ing lever and spent an impatient half-hour rising to my home a- bove. I had been down seven hours by my watch.

I APOLOGIZE for this long history, but it is essential to an explanation of what I now in¬ tend doing. I made a second trip down a week later with a powerful flashlight and a good rifle. I determined to explore only the rocky slope at the sum¬ mit of which the elevator shaft rested. I took a compass with me and paper and sketched a map which I give here.

To the north, as you see, the

slope ends in the low cliff and beyond that a huge area inhab¬ ited by beasts too dangerous for me to approach alone. On the east I found the entrance to the long tunnel that leads to the cave of light. But before exam¬ ining in that direction, I made the circuit of the south and west and found it all walled in harm¬ lessly except for one huge gap of a hundred yards where the rock steeply fell away into the water of a large underground lake. It was more than half a mile across, I judged, or I should have seen the far side in the un¬ real beam of my flashlight It might be a hundred miles for all I could tell, for I have not yet gotten around to exploring its gloomy surface in a boat. This preliminary work occupied sev¬ eral hours. When I got back to the surface, I felt more comfort¬ able about further work, for the beasts evidently could not at-

22

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

tack me unless I climbed down the natural barrier that hemmed them in. Fortunately, I did not tempt them, for you will remem¬ ber that the one we shot almost reached the top of the cliff in his charge.

I determined to solve the mys¬ tery of the phosphorescence and made a trip into that tunnel- entered place for specimens. I got them, in spite of the smell, and brought them up for exam¬ ination in the sunlight. They were more like mushrooms than anything I knew — the round puffball kind — but in the light of day, they quickly decayed and lost shape and form under my eyes. In a few minutes, they were putrescent, smelled to high heaven and dripped messily. I had the mess saved in a bowl over which I had been holding the things, and this bowlful I had analyzed. Then on another expedition, I saw one of the lu¬ minous bats and shot it and brought that up to examine. You know what happened to it, for you saw the one Colonel Marsh shot and how it looked the next morning. I had that analyzed too.

THE RESULTS weren’t any¬ thing definite, but indicated something to me and I became interested in subterranean life generally. I got a good many books on the blind newts and fishes found in famous caverns the world over — managed to

get a few specimens as well, and I had them analyzed to compare with my own findings. Here’s my theory, for what it’s worth. Up to my discovery, all the un¬ derground life discovered has been merely surface types a- dapted to darkness; even the fish dredged up from the lowest depths of the sea have been considered merely adaptations of surface life. Now suppose that life had been trapped in caves far beneath the earth hundreds of thousands of years ago. Sup¬ pose that the pressure rose grad¬ ually and the caverns continued sinking and impurities were in the underground atmosphere — sulphur for instance — and over long periods of time life chang¬ ed to meet these conditions and survived in a new form. Exits might occasionally appear lead¬ ing up to the surface, and the emerging blind things would fall easy prey to the surface camivorse, so that all who emerged, died. Some types would be incapable of emerg¬ ing because the rays of the sun would be painful and drive them back. These would breed and survive below.

Legendary history is full of such hints. Dragons were sup¬ posed to dwell beneath the ground and to emerge from caverns breathing fire. (Does this possibly mean that dragons were adapted to an atmosphere where oxygen was lacking, its place being taken perhaps by

Caverns

sulphur, and that upon coming into the upper air their breath burned?) Moreover, if legend be credited, the Greeks believed Hades a place where men ate dust in dim darkness and hell¬ hounds with huge jaws guarded the entrance. It sticks in my fan¬ cy that we may have shot a regular classic hell-hound last week.

Well, then, how about devils? Might they really exist down below? Cloven hoofs, leathery hides, horned heads and forked tails — all complete? Frankly, I should not be surprised. More¬ over I shall find out, if I live. A month ago I made an expedi¬ tion to the cave of light and walked a good five miles by compass over its vegetable-dusty floor. I came to a canyon in the form of a gap in the floor half a mile across and almost that in depth. Peering over, I saw, far below, half a dozen pits of fire glowing — probably volcan¬ ic. The air down there is steamy and the light only a dull redness. I cannot be sure, but I am al¬ most certain that I saw figures moving about the fires. I had a great coil of rope with me and ithe sides of the canyon were rough enough at one spot to at¬ tempt the descent. I did so, and half way down, the steamy air bellied up around me and I nearly choked, for it smells of “fire and brimstone,” as the an¬ cients put it. I clung, gasping, to the rock until the steam

Horror 23

swirled free so that I could climb up again.

IT WAS THEN that I deter¬ mined to see whether I could obtain discreet assistance. You know how I inveigled you to my place and together we fought the hell-hounds. So poorly did the experiment work that I can see no advantage in having rifles back of me when I explore. Why risk four lives instead of merely my own? By the time you read this, I shall be down there solving die mys- try of the fiery canyon. If its dangers are insurmountable, I shall gladly have your help in further studying and examining my underground kingdom — a- voiding altogether the cave of the beasts.

I have made these prepara¬ tions: a strong and light ladder of silk rope and a diver’s suit and helmet of rubber — the land with an oxygen tank strap¬ ped on the back. There is a tel¬ ephone in the helmet and two fine copper 'wires lead back to the elevator cage behind me — more to enable me to find my way back at a run if the need should arise than for any ne¬ cessity to be in communication. But I shall be able to communi¬ cate with you, if you wish, from the telephone hidden be¬ hind the encyclopedia in the library in my house. So, you see, you need not miss the fun even if I decline to permit you

24

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

to share the risk. I have made arrangements so that you can get out here if you want ’to a- bout the time I start the descent from the floor of the cave of light down into the canyon.

There may be devils down there — or there may be drag¬ ons — or merely subterranean fire. If there are dragons, how about our bet. Colonel? Twice won?

WE FINISHED this amaz¬ ing manuscript as the big car trundled across the 57th Street bridge. “Damn’ fool!” snapped the colonel, with plain envy and admiration written all over his face. It was about then that we persuaded the chauffeur to real¬ ly step on things and get us out to Paulings as soon as he could. Why we weren’t arrest¬ ed a dozen times, I cannot now imagine.

IV

WE THRUST our way past the scandalized footman at Smithers’ house. He half turned after us as if to fight for the decencies, when the butler stalked up in dignity after us and made all right again. We burst headlong into the library, oblivious to all else, and threw the volumes of encyclopedia un¬ ceremoniously onto the floor. There was a telephone with its

receiver replaced by a small metal piece and connected by wire to a box type loudspeaker. Seeman leaned over and called “Smithers!” Then Colonel Marsh pushed him impatiently aside. ^Smithers! You young idiot! Can you hear us?” ne yelled.

The loudspeaker chuckled. Smithers’ voice came quietly from the box. “You got up there pretty quick. I’m just adjusting the diving outfit now. If you’d called five minutes ago, you would have had to wait until I put this helmet on to get an answer.”

“We want to come down and stand by while you climb into that canyon,” said I.

The colonel burst out, “We are coming down, you hear?”

Another chuckle from tile box. “Afraid that won’t be possible. The elevator is pretty well con¬ cealed. I sent it up again, it’s true — but to prevent any one coming down to this place rath¬ er than to permit them to do so.”

“We’ll smash the floor of the gunroom and climb down the ropes!”

‘Two inches of steel and six inches of composition in that floor, Colonel. You’d need dyna¬ mite. Besides, what could you do? I’ve just fastened the silk ladder and thrown the tail of it over. Now I shall start climb¬ ing down. If you three were waiting for me here, you could¬ n’t help me when I get down

Caverns Of Horror

25

below there. While I am climb¬ ing, I am safe from the hell¬ hounds, but if one came into the cave of light while you were here, he would attack you. You can’t help me but you can harm yourselves.”

“Damn it all!” shouted die colonel. “Do you suppose we are afraid to risk ourselves? We’re going to get down in spite of your And he rushed away to the gunroom with Seeman and myself following. We spent ten useless minutes searching eveiy drawer and cupboard for hia- den mechanism, but were com¬ pelled to give up the search. The colonel ruined a beautiful shot¬ gun by using its barrel as a crowbar and pounding on the floor of the room with it. The floor gave off a very solid¬ sounding sort of thud and I left to go back to the telephone in the library.

“Where are you now, Smith- ers?” I asked.

. . Ugh . . . just a . . . ugh . . . there! Pretty near halfway down.” There were sounds of heavy breathing. “Did you all go away, or what happened?”

I told him of our attempt to find the hidden elevator appa¬ ratus. He laughed. “Foolish! You’d never find that! Besides, I set the controls from below when I sent the car back up to the surface. You'd better stay by die telephone and enjoy this adventure second-hand, instead of wasting your time.”

SEEMAN AND Colonel Marsh entered just then and heard the last half of Smithers’ remarks sheepishly enough.

“Hard work climbing — even on a ladder — and the dam thing swings a bit — and this diving suit is the most uncom¬ fortable thing I ever wore — have to rest— every few minutes . . .’’and the loud-speaker panted.

It took Smithers half an hour to reach the bottom of that bur¬ ied canyon. All through the climb, we exchanged the mad¬ dest kind of conversation — par¬ ticularly during the brief and frequent periods he found it ne¬ cessary to rest.

“The steam is swirling around my feet,” he announced once. “It looks yellowish right now and the fires below are orange and the rock beside me is a smooth, shiny black — though there’s so little light that the oolors are more imagined than seen, except where the fires show through. I have my flashlight and an automatic, but somehow these don’t seem the proper weapons for this world down here.”

Then another time, “It’s all black and cloudy around me now — I can make out the fires though, so I suppose I could see through the mist fairly well if there were any light. I don’t dare turn on the flash. You know, if I do find life down here, it will be a queer sort of life! I suppose strong sunlight

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

would kill it in an instant . . . yet there’s another idea. Millions of years from now when the sun cools and the air on earth freez¬ es in its red rays, these creatures down here — if they exist — may come out onto the surface and inherit the earth.”

Vague ideas flashed through my mind as he spoke: Powers of Darkness imprisoned down in the earth by the Face of Right¬ eousness, evil things that cannot bear the light of day. “Smith- ers,” I said. “They could come out now during the night!”

“Perhaps they do,” he grunt¬ ed. “This damned telephone string is a nuisance!”

“Don’t you dare cut it!” thun¬ dered the colonel.

“Shan’t, don’t worry! I may need it to find my way back to the hanging ladder.”

"What do you mean by say¬ ing perhaps they do’?” I persist-

“Devils, dragons, will-o’-the- wisps, gnomes, elves — they are all night-going apparitions, are¬ n’t they? Maybe they used to sneak out of caves at night and return at dawn. Maybe they never existed. I don’t know! . . . By Jove! No . . . yes! I’m at the bottom!”

There was a period of silence. We could hear Smithers’ breath¬ ing as though we had stood be¬ side him. For ourselves, we scarcely breathed at all. “Can’t see the fires from down here . . . mighty dark . . . God! What

was that? ... I thought I felt some little thing scuttle off through the darkness . . . it’s dis¬ turbing not to be able to see or hear anything . .

THE VOICE trailed off and there was another moment of silence. I licked my lips dryly. We could hear the thud of slow feet and an occasional stumble and knew that Smithers was walking.

“I see a faint glow of red a- gainst the blackness,” his voice whispered. ‘1 suppose that’s one of the fire pits . . . yes, it is, I can see it better now . . . but there doesn’t seem to be any animals around it . . .”

Another pause. “Well, the coast’s clear at this pit, anyway. Perhaps I only imagined that I saw things down here . . . but I was pretty sure I di4 . . . Good Heavens . . .”

The voice stopped. “Speak up, man! What is it?” we shouted in unison.

“Hmm! I suppose it’s lava. The hole’s twenty feet across and about a hundred yards deep, and the fiery stuff down at the bottom keeps moving slightly up and down — like a pulse beating in tom flesh. Rather giddy thing to look down into . . .” Then we heard the thump and shuffle of his further progress.

“Seems to be no life here at all. I’m going to chance the flashlight . . . Lord, but it’s a

Caverns Of Horror

27

big place! And not a thing . . .” We heard the quick indrawn breath that held a second. “Dear God!” and the thump , thump, thump and the 'heavy panting breaths.

I leaned over to the instru¬ ment. “What is it Smithers?” I whispered anxiously. There was ho answer but the sounds of run¬ ning. Then, “The place is full of them . . . thousands . . . such horrible things . . . like a night¬ mare . . . thank the Lord I thought of leaving this string trail to follow . . . they are after me . . .” He was evidently talk¬ ing to himself more than to us and we did not dare speak now. “There it is . . . thank God . . . about time, too . . . ahh!” Then we heard sounds of very heavy breathing which we took to mean he had found the ladder and was ascending — then a pause while we supposed he re¬ gained his breath.

“That was a close thing (pant) but I’m twenty feet up now (pant) and . . . they’ve come to the foot of the ladder but don’t dare climb it (pant). I can see them plainly in the light of the flash down there. You never saw such things . . . like brown leather . . .”

WE HEARD the sharp intake of breath and then slow and hor¬ rified, “This ladder is moving! There’s something above me!” Our nerves were taut to the breaking point, and the colonel

leaned forward with bulging eyes. “Shoot your way upr he cried.

There was on the instant the sound of a shot and another and another in quick succession till we counted ten. Then Smithers cried out unintelligibly and we heard sounds of struggle and blows struck, evidently on the metal diving helmet, then a scream, long drawn out and blood-chilling, ending in a crash and silence . . .

“My God! I can’t stand this! He’s been knocked off the lad¬ der and probably killed,” cried the colonel. He paced the floor clasping and unclasping his fin¬ gers.

But Smithers had not been killed — would to God he had! A groan came from the loud¬ speaker and we rushed to it. “Smithers, old man, can you hear us?”

Another groan. “I’m done for,” he said weakly. “I think my back is broken, for I can’t seem to move either leg . . . What a fool I was not to let you come down with me! . . . The flash¬ light didn’t break; it’s just out of my reach and lights up every- ■ thing on my right side . . . that’s where they are . . . they’re com¬ ing! Colonel Marsh! Colonel Marsh! Turn off the speaker . . . ahh! — please turn it off! You mustn’t hear — no one must hear what . . . dear God in Heaven . . . this isn’t happening to me; it’s a nightmare! It must be! Just

28

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

a dream and I’ll close my eyes and not see those teeth . . . when I wake up, I’ll laugh at it all . .

Then we heard quick breath¬ ing and . . . the next five min¬ utes were unendurable. I cannot bear to put it on paper. Colonel Marsh bowd his head so that his ears were cupped by the palms’ of his hands and he kept mutter¬ ing and moaning to himself. Seeman stood with hands be¬ hind his back and his yellow parchment-like skin seemed to tighten on his cheek bones, but his face was as meek and ex¬ pressionless as ever. When he reached forward with a horrible oath and ripped the instrument from the wall to smash it on the floor, his action seemed incon¬ gruously violent. In the sudden silence, I looked about the room aimlessly, trying desperately not to be ill and noticed how peace¬ fully the sunlight rested on the table beneath the window — healing, sane sunlight . . .

WE MADE fools of ourselves then. We tried to tear up the steel-braced floor of the gun room and the butler objected. His master, he informed us, had left word that we were to be brought here — but he had no authority to permit us to tear the house apart. We tried to ex- lain what had happened or was appening to poor Smithers, but he stared stiffly and incredu¬ lously and stalked off to phone the police.

That sobered us, but we agreed that the matter would have to be turned over to them anyway. We awaited their arriv¬ al in morose silence. We needed every drop of the stiff brandies we took while waiting, for our nerves were frayed to the break¬ ing point. But when the two rather stupid patrolmen arrived they listened with growing sus¬ picion to our frantic arguments.

Finally one leaned close to the colonel and sniffed reminiscent¬ ly-

“Hmm!” he said with raised eyebrows. “So that’s it, is it! Now do you three want to leave the house quietly and go to your homes, or would you prefer to make trouble and arrive at the police station? You should be ashamed of yourselves!”

“Blast your impudence!” snorted Colonel Marsh, “Smith¬ ers is down below the ground fighting leathery beasts this in¬ stant ... I tell you, he told us so himself!”

That, you see, was pretty hopeless from then on. Even the colonel saw the point and stop¬ ped talking, to stand biting ms lower lip with his teeth and tap¬ ping savagely with his foot.

“Let’s go,” said Seeman short¬ ly-

WE MADE inquiries when we got back to the city — still onlv the afternoon of that in¬ credible day — and learned

Caverns

something of poor Smithers’ af¬ fairs. He had a cousin, it seemed, who would inherit the estate. The cousin lived in Eng¬ land. I called up a lawyer I knew and put certain guarded ques¬ tions to him. It appeared that nothing could be done by any one until at least seven years af¬ ter Smithers vanished. Until then he would be presumed still alive. After that, we agreed wearily, the cousin might be ap¬ proached with a view to buying the estate (Colonel Marsh is wealthy) and so there does re¬ main a dim possibility of our

Horror 29

some day learning more about those caverns of horror.

Seeman and I tried hard to get drunk that night, but we couldn’t do it. We consumed un¬ believable quantities of hard li¬ quor in my apartment and then went around to the Stranger Club and drank there. The hor¬ ror of those last few minutes re¬ mained with me for three days and I still do not care to think about it more than I can help. Only last night I dreamed about it again — that high-pitched un¬ natural voice screaming . . . screaming . . . screaming . . .

The five tales from the Stranger Club appeared in Wonder Stories magazine, as follows: The Call of the Mech-Men, November 1933; Caverns of Horror, March 1934; Voice of Atlantis, July 1934; The Moth Message, December 1934; and Seeds From Space, June 1935.

Of the lot, only Caverns of Horror is a straight horror tale. Call of the Mech-Men deals with a secret race of intelligent machines; and Seeds From Space with vege¬ table entities growing from spores out of the void. The

<prodiqy

If Waft JfieULr

Most of the troubles and tragedies of this world derive from the be¬ havior of emotional infants who are adults chronologically. They are really no more mature than the narrator of this story and there is nothing funny about them. The child genius, however, can be quite frightening — and yet, amusing.

IT WAS A work of art, a gen¬ uine work of art. I’m definitely a genius and I can prove it.

I suppose all this delightful nonsense smarted when I was about seven months old. My Mother, having boned up on Spock, was holding me close and dispensing part of the daily ration of love and affection. You know — to make me feel want¬ ed, secure, and all that jazz.

Of course I gurgled and smiled appropriately.

“Say Mama,” she cooed. “Ma- aa Maaa.”

In a fit of inspiration I low¬ ered my voice the required num¬ ber of decibels and said, “Go to Hell.”

The resultant chaos was abso¬ lutely delicious. She thought my Father had said it and no amount of pleading on his part could convince her he was inno¬ cent of the heinous crime, as she called it. The argument last¬ ed into the early morning hours and for the first time in my life I fell asleep.

It didn’t take me long to real¬ ize I could manipulate tnem like

30

puppets, and as I grew older, I began to hate my Mother with a vengeance. She was a bitch from the word go.

Mother was all woman and she had the body to prove it. Despite the fact she treated my Father abominably, he still trem¬ bled when he was close to her or saw her traipse around nude, which she did at the slightest provocation.

Often, during the night. I would hear him plead with her to make love. She would lead him on interminable, and, when he was almost at the breaking point, allow him to have her. Then she would pour on the ar¬ dor and have it so quickly done that my Father would be left completely befuddled and quite unsatisfied. You could almost hear her gloat in the darkness while my father screamed silent¬ ly, and my hate grew and grew.

There were other little nice¬ ties about her that were enor¬ mously distasteful. As I grew older, she gradually assumed management of the household money, spending most of it on herself and little me, leaving a comparative pittance for Father.

And my distaste for him grew also. Not only because he allow¬ ed her to dominate him, but for his complete lack of struggle. She had only to use a feather to push him into her hellhole of sick conformity, replete with dinners for the boss and his wife, the fashionable club bit, and die

useless round of cocktail parties with vapid women and bollow men whose only chance for real contentment was the grave.

The women adored him, the men envied him, and my Mother smiled smugly. Why shouldn’t they? He had cocktailed his boss into a vice presidency, he had a gorgeous, sexy wife, a blue ribbon child, he could quote any batting average for the last twenty years. Actually he de¬ spised baseball, but it was another way of proving he was a man. Ah, yes, he was a success.

Well, as you can readily see, things finally approached the breaking point. The only thing I cared for were my pets and Aunt Martha, who was so simple and unwise I couldn’t help but like her.

WHICH BRINGS me to my work of art. It took planning and patience and all the cunning I could muster. It was little old me who implanted in their ade¬ quate brains the idea of living in the country, partly because I insisted on having a pony, which I rode impeccably, and because I gently persuaded the doctor to suggest that the country air would be good for my health.

Actually, I’m not as puny as I pretend to be. But, sick chil¬ dren are less prone to discipline and get more presents, and so I made myself sick quite often, whenever I wanted something to go my way.

31

32

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

Besides, my work of art had to be accomplished with no dne around. Ana so, while pretend¬ ing to look at the pretty pictures in the encyclopedia, I boned up on poisons. You’d be surprised at die wonderful plants that grow in a country yard. Many of them have gorgeous flowers, or pleasant foliage, but it was so rewarding to discover how delightfully deadly some of them were, like the oleander bush for instance, and mush¬ rooms. And the pantry contained ever so many goodies like rat poison with an arsenical com¬ pound, and DDT, and lye.

It wasn’t very difficult to blank out Mother and cook up a nice little deadly brew with all those lovely ingredients on hand.

I waited for the proper day. Father was away on one of his numerous business trips. His business was of the monkey type with another woman. I wished him well. Through various bits of chicanery, I had forced my Mother to fire the maid, so we were alone. That lovely night when I was having my second Shirley Temple, I managed to pour a portion of my culinary artistry into her fourth martini. She died almost instantly. Tljis made me mad as hell as I want¬ ed to see her suffer a bit.

I put her in the deep freeze, and if you think that was easy, you’re nuts. I had to rig up a system of levers and pulleys and

concentrate all my powers to do it. Then I let her fall too fast. Her body messed up all the neat rows of frozen foods and I had to straighten them all out. That so annoyed me I went into the living room and had a real cock¬ tail. .

The next few days were quite wonderful. I ate what I wanted, when I wanted. I walked a cou¬ ple of miles through the woods to the river. I swam underwater to the other side so no one would see me and started a few fires in the forest just for kicks. At home I could go naked and float around the house without worry¬ ing about anyone seeing me.

I also had time to perfect my witches’ brew so that it wasn’t quite so potent, for I still had Father to experiment with.

Good thing, too, as he ruined my fun by returning a day early. I told him Mother was sleeping, slipped it in his coffee, then asked for some ice cream. It couldn’t have been better. The timing was perfect. He lifted the lid of the freezer, saw Moth¬ er, and died with an unbelieva¬ ble look of horror frozen on his face.

The only trouble was I had to go through the whole damn business with the levers and pulleys again to get his body in¬ to the freezer with Mother. But I succeeded in letting him down easy and didn’t disturb the food, so it really wasn’t too bad.

The wake was marvelous. I lit

33

Prodigy

candles all over the house, turned on the hi-fi and danced and floated through all the rooms in the house. It was a ball. A real ball!

But the best is yet to come. There’s more fun pending. When I tire of being alone. I’m going to call Aunt Martha. Then I’ll cry and say I’m all alone and can’t find Mother or Father. Of course she’ll break her neck get¬ ting here.

First, though, I’m going to turn off the deep freeze and wait until my dear departed parents are just about ripe. And then, when I ask Aunt Martha for some ice cream — well, you can imagine what fun I’m going to have.

Of course, I don’t have a wor¬ ry in the world about anyone suspecting me. After all, I’m on¬ ly a five-year-old girl, and the best part is I only look four.

I never did look my age.

THE LOVECRAFT CORRESPONDENCE

Among your editor’s most treasured souvenirs are two letters received from H. P. Lovecraft, the second written within a fortnight of his death, in February 1937. We were delighted when we heard in 1939, that August Derleth and Donald Wandrei planned to bring out collections not only of HPL’s stories and novels, but also the correspondence; for while we still enjoy most of the stories, the letters revealed as fascinating and many-sided character as one could hope to encoun¬ ter in these days.

Now, after many delays, the first of three volumes of the letters is being published by Arkham House, Sauk City, Wisconsin. This volume, Mr. Derleth states, “con¬ tains the best of the available letters from the earliest letter found through the year 1926; it reveals many as¬ pects of Lovecraft which have eithei; been unknown or had scant publicity before. The letters are the product of an uncommonly erudite man, a gentleman and a scholar with a charming sense of humor . . .”

The price of this volume is $6.00.

L KoLrl W. CliamLe

A reader writes to inquire if Robert W. Chambers ever wrote a three-act play entitled The King In Yellow, which he quotes in his short stories and novelets. To the best of our knowledge, he did not any more than H. P. Lovecraft wrote a volume of horrendous and forbidden knowledge, entitled The Necronomicon, from which he quotes in his tales. In both instances, the fragments are all that exist. This is the third and last of the tales where¬ in the terrible King In Yellow is referred to. The first, The Repairer Of Reputations, appeared in our February 1964 issue; the second, The Yellow Sign, was in our August 1963 issue. Coming to die end of this story, we regretted once again that the King (both as a play which has such ghastly affect upon those who read it, and as a frightful being which seems to have some existence independent of the play) figures in less than half the length of the volume to bear that tide. But, perhaps Chambers was wise in stop¬ ping before his readers had had enough!

Camilla. You, sir, should unmask. Stranger. Indeed?

Cassilda. Indeed it’s time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.

Stranger. I wear no mask.

Camilla (terrified, aside to Cassilda). No mask? No mask! -“The King in Yellow," act i., scene 2.

ALTHOUGH I knew nothing of chemistry, I listened fascinat¬ ed. He picked up an Easter lily which Genevieve had brought that morning from Notre Dame and dropped it into the basin. Instantly the liquid lost its crys¬ talline clearness. For a second

34

the lily was enveloped in a milk- white foam, which disappeared, leaving the fluid opalescent. Changing tints of orange and crimson played over the surface, and then what seemed to be a ray of pure sunlight struck through from the bottom where the lily was resting. At the same instant he plunged his hand into the basin and drew out the flower. “There is no danger,” he explained, “if you choose the right moment. That golden ray is the signal.”

He held-, the lily towards me and I took it in my hand. It had turned to stone, to the purest marble.

“You see,” he said, “it is with¬ out a flaw. What sculptor could reproduce it?”

The marble was white as snow; but in its depths the veins of the lily were tinged with palest azure, and a faint flush lingered deep in its heart.

“Don’t ask me the reason of that,” he smiled, noticing my wonder. “I have no idea why the veins and heart are tinted, but they always are. Yesterday I tried one of Genevieve’s gold¬ fish — there it is.”

The fish looked as if sculp- tored in marble. But if you held it to the light the stone was beautifully veined with a faint blue, and from somewhere with¬ in came a rosy light like the tint which slumbers in an opal. I looked into the basin. Once

more it seemed filled with clear¬ est crystal.

“If I should touch it now?” I demanded.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but you had better not try.”

“There is one thing I’m curi¬ ous about,” I said, “and that is where the ray of sunlight came from.”

“It looked like a sunbeam, true enough,” he said. “I don’t know, it always comes when I immerse any living thing. Per¬ haps,” hte continued, smiling — “perhaps it is the vital spark of the creature escaping to the source whence it came.”

I saw he was mocking, and threatened him with a mahl- stick; but he only laughed and changed the subject.

“Stay to lunch. Genevieve will be here directly.”

“I saw her going to early mass,” I said, “and she looked as fresh and sweet as that lily — before you destroyel it.”

“Do you think I destroyed it?” said Boris, gravely.

“Destroyed, preserved, how can we tell?”

We sat in the comer of a stu¬ dio near his unfinished group of “The Fates”. He leaned back on the sofa, twirling a sculptor’s chisel and squinting at his work.

“By-the-way,” he said, “I have finished pointing up that old academic ‘Ariadne’, and I sup¬ pose it will have to go to the Salon. It’s all 1 have ready this

36

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

year, but after the success the ‘Madonna’ brought me I feel ashamed to send a thing like that.”

The ‘Madonna,” an exquisite marble, for which Genevieve had sat, had been the sensation of last year’s Salon. I looked at the “Ariadne”. It was a magnificent piece of technical wojjc; but I agreed with Boris that me world would expect something better of him than that. Still, it was impossible now to think of fin¬ ishing in time for the Salon that splendid, terrible group half shrouded in the marble behind me. “The Fates” would have to wait.

WE WERE proud of Boris Yvain. We claimed him and he claimed us on the strength of his having been born in Ameri¬ ca, although his father was French and his mother was a Russian. Every one in the Beaux Arts called him Boris. And yet there were only two of us whom he addressed in the same famil¬ iar way — Jack Scott and myself.

Perhaps my being in love with Genevieve had something to do with his affection for me. Not that it had ever been ac¬ knowledged between us. But after all was settled, and she had told me with tears in her eyes that it was Boris whom she loved, I want over to his house and congratulated him. The perfect cordiality of that

interview did not deceive either of us, I always believed, al¬ though to one at least it was a great comfort. I do not think he and Genevieve ever spoke of the matter together, but Boris knew.

Genevieve was lovely. The Madonna-like purity of her face might have been inspired by the “Sanctus” in Gounod’s Mass. But I was always glad when she changed that mood for what we called her “April Maneuvers”. She was often as variable as an April day. In the morning grave, dignified, and sweet; at noon laughing, capricious; at evening whatever one least expected. I preferred her so rather than in that Madonna-like tranquility which stirred the depths of my heart. I was dreaming of Gen¬ evieve when he spoke again.

“What do you think of my discovery, Alec?”

“I think it wonderful.”

“I shall make no use of it, you know, beyond satisfying my own curiosity so far as may be, and the secret will die with me.”

“It would be rather a blow to sculpture, would it not? We painters lose more than we ever gain by photography.”

Boris nodded, playing with the edge of the chisel.

“This new, vicious discovery would corrupt the world of art. No. I shall never confide the se- ret to any one,” he said, slowly.

It would be hard to find any

The

one less informed about such phenomena than myself; but of course I had heard of mineral springs so saturated with silica that die leaves and twigs which fell into them were turned to stone after a time. I dimly com¬ prehended the process, how the silica replaced the vegetable matter, atom by atom, and the result was a duplicate of the ob¬ ject in stone. This I confess had never interested me gready, and, as for the ancient fossils thus produced, they disgusted me. Boris, it appeared, feeling curiosity instead of repugnance, had investigated the subject, and had accidentally stumbled on a solution which, attacking the immersed object with a fer¬ ocity unheard of, in a second did the work of years. This was all I could make out of the strange story he had just been telling me. He spoke again after a long silence.

“I am almost frightened when I think what-I have found. Sci¬ entists would go mad over the discovery. It was so simple, too; it discovered itself. When I think of that formula, and that new element precipitated in me¬ tallic scales . . .”

“What new element?”

“Oh, I haven’t thought of naming it, and I don’t believe I ever shall. There are enough precious metals now in the world to cut throats over.”

Mask 87

I pricked up my ears. “Have you struck gold, Boris?”

“No, better; but see here, Alec!” he laughed, starting up. “You and I have all we need in this world. Ah! how sinister and covetous you look already!” I laughed, too, and told him I was devoured by the desire for gold, and we had better talk of some¬ thing else; so, when Genevieve came in shortly after, we had turned our backs on alchemy.

Genevieve was dressed in sil¬ very gray from head to foot. The light glinted along the soft curves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek to Boris; then she saw me and returned my greeting. She had never before failed to blow me a kiss from the tips of her white fingers, and I promptly complained of the omission. She smiled and held ' out her hand, which dropped almost before it had touched mine; then she said, looking at Boris: “You must ask Alec to stay for luncheon.”

This also was something new. She had always asked me her¬ self until today.

‘1 did,” said Boris, shortly.

“And you said yes, I hope.” She turned to me with a charm¬ ing conventional smile. I might have been an acquaintance of the day before yesterday. I made her a low bow. “favais bien Vhonneur, madame but, refusing to take up our usual bantering tone, she murmured

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

a hospitable commonplace and disappeared. Boris and I Iqoked at each other.

“I had better go home, don’t you think?” I asked.

“Hanged if I know,” he re¬ plied, frankly.

While we were discussing the advisability of my departure, Genevieve reappeared in the doorway without her bonnet. She was wonderfully beautiful; but her color was too deep and her lovely eyes were too bright. She came straight up to me and took my arm.

"Luncheon is ready. Was I cross, Alec? I thought I had a headache, but I haven’t. Come here, Boris,” and she slipped her other arm through his. “Alec knows that, after you, there is no one in the world whom I like as well as I like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed if won’t hurt him.”

“A la bonheurr I cried; “who says there are no thunder-storms in April?”

“Are you ready?” chanted Boris. “Aye ready”; and arm-in- arm we raced into the dining¬ room, scandalizing the servants. After all, we were not so much to blame; Genevieve was eight¬ een, Boris was twenty-three, and I not quite twenty-one. ,

II

SOME WORK that I was do¬ ing about this time on the deco¬

rations for Genevieve’s boudoir kept me constantly at the quaint little hotel in the Rue Sainte- Cecile. Boris and I in those days labored hard, but as we pleased, which was fitfully, and we all three, with Jack Scott, idled a great deal together.

One quiet afternoon I had been wandering alone over the house examining curios, prying into odd comers, bringing out sweetmeats and cigars from strange hiding-places, and at last I stopped in the bathing- room. Boris, all over clay, stood there washing his hands.

The room was built of rose- colored marble, excepting the floor, which was tessellated in rose and gray. In the center was a square pool sunken below the surface of the floor; steps led down into it; sculptured pillars supported a frescoed ceiling. A delicious marble. Cupid ap¬ peared to have just alighted on his pedestal at the upper end of the room. The whole interior was Boris’s work and mine. Boris, in his working clothes of white canvas, scraped the traces of clay and red modelling-wax from his handsome hands and coquetted over his shoulder with the Cupid.

“I see you,” he insisted; “don’t try to look the other way and pretend not to see me. You know who made you, little hum¬ bug!”

It was always my role to in-

The Mask

terpret Cupid’s sentiments in these conversations, and when my turn came I responded in such a manner that Boris seized my arm and dragged me to¬ wards the pool, declaring he would duck me. Next instant he dropped my arm and turned pale. “Good God!” he said, “I forgot the pool is full of the solution!”

I shivered a little, and dryly advised him to remember better where he had stored the preci¬ ous liquid.

“In Heaven’s name, why do you keep a small lake of that gruesome stuff here of all plac¬ es?” I asked.

“I want to experiment on something large,” he replied.

“On me, for instance!”

“Ah! that came too close for jesting; but I do want to watch the action of that solution on a more highly organized living body; there is that big, white rabbit,” he said, following me into the studio.

Jack Scott, wearing a paint- stained jacket, came wandering in, appropriated all the Oriental sweetmeats he could lay his hands on, looted the cigarette- oase, and finally he and Boris disappeared together to visit the Luxembourg Gallery, where a new silver bronze by Rodin and a landscape of Monet’s were claiming the exclusive attention of artistic France. I went back to the studio and resumed my

work. It was a Renaissance screen, which Boris wanted me to paint for Genevieve’s boud¬ oir. But the small boy who was unwillingly dawdling through a series of poses for it today re¬ fused all bribes to be good. He never rested an instant in the same position, and inside of five minutes I had as many differ¬ ent outlines of the little beggar.

“Are you posing or are you executing a song and dance, my friend?” i inquired.

“Whichever monsieur pleas¬ es,” he replied, with an angelic smile.

Of course I dismissed him for the day, and of course I paid him for the full time, that being the way we spoil our models.

After the young imp had one, I made a few perfunctory aubs at my work, but was so thoroughly out of humor that it took me the rest of the after¬ noon to undo the damage I had done, so at last I scraped my alette, stuck my brushes in a owl of black soap, and strolled into the smoking-room. I really believe that, excepting Gene¬ vieve’s apartments, no room in the house was so free from the perfume of tobacco as this one. It was a queer chaos of odds and ends hung with threadbare tapestry. A sweet-toned old spinet in good repair stood by the window. There were stands of weapons, some old and dull, others bright and modern, fes-

40

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

toons of Indian and Turkish armor over the mantel, two or three good pictures, and a pipe- rack. It was here that we used to come for new sensations in smoking. I doubt if any type of pipe ever existed which was not represented in that rack. When we had selected one, we immed¬ iately carried it somewhere else and smoked it; for the place was, on the whole, more gloomy and less inviting than any in the house. But this afternoon the twilight was very soothing; the rugs and skins on the floor looked brown and soft and drowsy; the big couch was piled with cushions.

I found my pipe and curled up there for an unaccustomed smoke in the smoking-room. I had chosen one with a long, flexible stem, and, lighting it, fell to dreaming. After a while it went out; but I did not stir. I dreamed on and presently fell asleep.

I AWOKE TO the saddest music I had ever heard. The room was quite dark; I had no idea what time it was. A ray of moonlight silvered one edge of the old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds as perfume floats above ,a box of sandal-wood. Someone rose in the darkness and came away weeping quietly, and I was fool enough to cry out, “Genevieve!”

She dropped at my voice, and I had time to curse myself while I made a light and tried to raise her from the floor. She shrank away with a murmur of pain. She was very quiet, and asked for Boris. I carried her to the divan, and went to look for him; but he was not in the house, and the servants were gone to bed.' Perplexed and anxious, I hurried back to Genevieve. She lay where I had left her, look¬ ing very white.

“I can’t find Boris nor any of the servants,” I said.

“I know,” she answered, faint¬ ly, “Boris has gone to Ept with Mr. Scott. I did not remember when I sent you for him just now.”

“But he can’t get back in that case before tomorrow afternoon, and — are you hurt? Did I frighten you into falling? What an awful fool I am, but I was only half awake.”

“Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. Do please excuse us for letting you stay here all this time.”

“I have had a long nap,” I laughed, “so sound that I did not know whether I was still asleep or not when I found my¬ self staring at a figure that was moving towards me, and called out your name. Have you been trying the old spinet? You must have played very softly.”

I would tell a thousand more lies worse than that one to see

The Mask

41

the look of relief that came into her face. She smiled adorably and said, in her natural voice: “Alec, I tripped on that wolf’s head, and I think my ankle is sprained. Please call Marie and then go home.”

I did as she bade me, and left her there when the maid came

III

AT NOON next day when I called, I found Boris walking restlessly about his studio.

“Genevieve is asleep just now,” he told me; “the sprain is nothing, but why should she have such a high fever? The doctor can’t account for it; or else he will not,” he muttered.

“Genevieve has a fever?” I asked.

“I should say so, and has act¬ ually been a little light-headed at intervals all night. The idea! — gay little Genevieve, without a care in the world — and she keeps saying her heart’s broken and she wants to die!”

My own heart stood still.

Boris leaned against the door of his studio, looking down, his hands in his pockets, his kind, keen eyes clouded, a new line of trouble drawn “over the mouth’s good mark, that made the smile.” The maid had orders to summon him the instant Gen¬ evieve opened her eyes. We waited, and Boris, growing rest¬

less, wandered about, fussing with modelling-wax and red clay. Suddenly he started for the next room. “Come and see my rose-colored bath full of death,” he cried.

“Is it death?” I asked, to hu¬ mor his mood.

“You are not prepared to call it life, I suppose,” he answered.

As he spoke he plucked a soli¬ tary goldfish squirming and twisting out of its globe. “We’ll send this one after the other — wherever that is,” he said. There was feverish excitement in his voice. A dull weight of fever lay on my limbs and on my brain as I followed him to the fair crystal pool with its pink- tinted sides; and he dropped the creature in. Falling, its scales flashed with a hot, orange gleam in its angry twistings and contortions; the moment it struck the liquid it became rigid and sank heavily to the bottom. Then came the milky foam, the splendid hues radiating on the surface, and then the shaft of pure, serene light broke through from seemingly infinite depths. Boris plunged in his hand and drew out an exquisite marble I thing, blue veined, rose tinted, and glistening with opalescent drops.

“Child’s play,” he muttered, and looked wearily, longingly, at me — as if I could answer such questions! But Jack Scott came in and eptered into the

42

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

“game”, as he called it, with ar¬ dor. Nothing would do but to try die experiment on the white rabbit then and there. I was willing that Boris should find distraction from his cares, but I hated to see the life go out of a warm, living creature, and I de¬ clined to be present.

Picking up a book at random, I sat down in the studio to read. Alas, I had found The King in Yellow. After a few moments, which seemed ages, I was put¬ ting it away with a nervous shudder, when Boris and Jack came in, bringing their marble rabbit. At the same time the bell rang above and a cry came from the sickroom. Boris was gone like a flash, and the next moment he called: “Jack, run for the doctor; bring him back with you. Alec, come here.”

I went and stood at her door. A frightened maid came out in haste and ran away to fetch some remedy. Genevieve, sitting bolt upright, with crimson cheeks and glittering eyes, bab¬ bled incessantly and resisted Boris’s gentle restraint. He call¬ ed me to help. At my first touch she sighed and sank back, clos¬ ing her eyes, and then — then — as we still bent above her, she opened them again, looked straight into Boris’s face, poor, fever-crazed girl, and told her secret. At the same instant our three lives turned into new channels; the bond that had

held us so long together snapped forever, and a new bond was forged in its place, for she had spoken my name, and, as the fever tortured her, her heart poured out its load of hidden sorrow. Amazed and dumb, I bowed my head, while my face burned like a live coal, and the blood surged in my ears,’ stupefying me with its clamor. Incapable of movement, incapable of speech, I listened to her feverish words in an ag¬ ony of shame and sorrow. I could not silence her, I could not look at Boris. Then I felt an arm upon my shoulder, and Boris turned a bloodless face to mine.

“It is not your fault, Alec; don’t grieve so if she loves you . . .” But he could not finish; and as the doctor stepped swift¬ ly into the room, saying, “Ah, the fever!” I seized Jack Scott and hurried him to the street, saying, “Boris would rather be alone.” We crossed the street to our own apartments, and that night, seeing I was going to be ill, too, he went for the doctor again. The last thing I recollect with any distinctness was hear¬ ing Jack say, “For Heaven’s sake, doctor, what ails him, to wear a face like that?” and I thought of The King in Yellow and the Pallid Mask.

I WAS VERY ill, for the strain of two years which I had

The Mask

43

endured since that fatal May morning when Genevieve mur- mered, “I love you, but I think I love Boris best,” told on me at last. I had never imagined that it could become more than I could endure. Outwardly tran¬ quil, I had deceived myself. Al¬ though the inward battle raged night after night, and I, lying alone in my room, cursed myself for rebellious thoughts unloyal to Boris and unworthy of Gen¬ evieve, the morning always brought relief, and I returned to Genevieve and to my dear Boris with a heart washed clean by the tempests of the night.

Never in word or deed or thought while with them had I betrayed my sorrow even to my¬ self.

The mask of self-deception was no longer a mask for me; it was a part of me. Night lifted it, laying bare the stifled truth be¬ low; but there was no one to see except myself, and when day broke the mask fell back again of its own accord. These thoughts passed through my troubled mind as I lay sick, but they were hopelessly entangled with visions of white creatures, heavy as stone, crawling about in Boris’s basin — of the wolfs head on the rug, foaming and snapping at Genevieve, who lay smiling bfeside it. I thought, too, of the King in Yellow wrapped in the fantastic colors of his tat¬ tered mantle, and that bitter cry

of Cassilda, “Not upon us, O King, not upon us!” Feverishly I struggled to put it from me, but I saw the Lake of Hali, thin and blank, without a ripple or wind to stir it, and I saw the towers of Carcosa behind the moon. Aldebaran, the Hyades, Alar, Hastur, glided through the cloud rifts which fluttered and flapped as they passed like the Scalloped tatters of the King in Yellow. Among all these, one sane thought persisted. It never wavered, ho matter what else was going on in my disordered mind, that my chief reason for existing was to meet some re¬ quirement of Boris and Gene¬ vieve. What this obligation was, its nature, was never clear; sometimes it seemed to be pro¬ tection, sometimes support, through a great crisis. Whatever it seemed to be for the time, its weight rested only on me, and I was never so ill or so weak that I did not respond with my whole soul. There were always crowds of faces about me, most¬ ly strange, but a few I recog¬ nized, Boris among them. After¬ wards they told me that this could not have been, but I know that once at least he bent over me. It was only a touch, a faint echo of his voice, then the clouds settled back on my sens¬ es, and I lost him, but he did stand there and bend over me once at least.

At last, one morning I awoke

44

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

to find the sunlight falling across my bed, and Jack Scott reading beside me. I' had not strength enough to speak aloud, neither could I think much less remember, but I could smile feebly as Jack’s eye met mine, and, when he jumped up and asked eagerly if I wanted any¬ thing, I could whisper, “Yes, Boris.” Jack moved to the head of my bed, and leaned down to arrange my pillow; I did not see his face, but he answered, heart¬ ily, “You must wait, Alec, you are too weak to see even Boris.”

I WAITED and I grew strong; in a few days I was able to see whom I would, but mean¬ while I had thought and remem¬ bered. From the moment when all past grew clear again in my mind, I never doubted what I should do when the time came, and I felt sure that Boris would have resolved upon the same course so far as he was con¬ cerned; as for what pertained to me alone, I knew he would see that also as I did. I no longer asked for anyone. I never in¬ quired why no message came from them; why, during the week I lay there, waiting and growing stronger, I never heard their names spoken, preoccu¬ pied with my own searchings for the right way, and with my feeble but determined fight against despair, I simply acqui¬ esced in Jack’s reticence, taking

for granted that he was afraid to speak of them, lest I should turn unruly and insist on seeing them.

Meanwhile, I said over and over to myself how it would be when life began again for us all. We would take up our relations exactly as they were before Genevieve fell ill. Boris and I would look into each other’s eyes, and there would be neith¬ er rancor nor cowardice nor mistrust in that glance. I would be with them again for a little while in the dear intimacy of their home, and then, without pretext or explanation, I would disappear from their lives for¬ ever. Boris would know; Gene¬ vieve — the only comfort was that she would never know. It seemed, as I thought it over, that I had found the meaning of that sense of obligation which had persisted all through my delirium, and the only possible answer to it. So, when I was quite ready, I beckoned Jack to me one day, and said: “Jack,

I want Boris at once, and take my dearest greeting to Gene¬ vieve . . .”

When at last he made me un¬ derstand that they were both dead, I fell into a wild rage that tore all my little convalescent strength to atoms. I raved and' cursed myself into a relapse, from which I crawled forth some weeks afterwards a boy of twenty-one who believed that

The Mask

45

his youth was gone forever. I seemed to be past the capability of further suffering, and one day, when Jack handed me a letter and die keys to Boris’s house, I took them without a tremor and asked him to tell me all. It was cruel of me to ask him, but there was no help for it, and he leaned wearily on his thin hands to reopen the wound which could never entirely heal. He began very quietly.

“Alec, unless you have a clue that I know nothing about, you will not be able to explain any more than I what has happened. I suspect that you would rather not hear these details, but you must learn them, else I would spare you the relation. God knows I wish I could be spared the telling. I shall use few words.

“That day when I left you in the doctor’s care and came back to Boris, I found him working on The Fates.’ Genevieve, he said, was sleeping under the in¬ fluence of drugs. She had been quite out of her mind, he said. He kept on working, not talk¬ ing any more, and I watched him. Before long I saw that the third figure of the group — the one looking straight ahead, out over the world — bore his face; not as you ever saw it, but as it looked then and to the end. This is one thing for which I should like to find an explanation, but I never shall.

“WELL, HE worked and I watched him in silence, and we went on that way until nearly midnight. Then we heard a door open and shut sharply, and a swift rush in the next room. Boris sprang through the door¬ way, and I followed; but we were too late. She lay at the bottom of the pool, her hands across her breast. Then Boris shot himself through the heart.”

Jack stopped speaking, drops of sweat stood under his eyes, and his thin cheeks twitched. “I carried Boris to his room. Then I went back and let that hellish fluid out of the pool, and, turn¬ ing on all the water,, washed the marble clean of every drop. When at length I dared descend the steps, I found her lying there as white as snow. At last, when I had decided what was best to do, I went into the labor¬ atory, and first emptied the solu¬ tion in the basin into the waste- pipe; then I poured the contents of every jar and bottle after it. There was wood in the fire- lace, so I built a fire, and, reaking the locks of Boris’s cabinet, I burned every paper, notebook, and letter that I found there. With a mallet from the studio I smashed to pieces all the empty bottles, then, load¬ ing them into a coal-scuttle, I carried them to the cellar and threw them over the red-hot bed of the furnace.

“Six times I made the jour-

46

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

ney, and at last not a vestige re¬ mained of anything which might again aid one seeking. for the formula which Boris h'ad found. Then at last I dared call the doctor. He is a good man, and together we struggled to keep it from the public. Without him I never could have succeed¬ ed. At last we got the servants paid and sent away into the country, where old Rosier keeps them quiet with stories of Bor¬ is’s and Genevieve’s travels in distant lands, whence they will not return for years. We buried Boris in the little cemetery of Sevres. The doctor is a good creature, and knows when to pity a man who can bear no more. He gave his certificate of heart disease and asked no questions of me.”

Then, lifting his head from his hands, he said, “Open the letter, Alec; it is for us both.”

I tore it open. It was Boris’s will, dated a year before. He left everything to Genevieve, and, in case of her dying child¬ less, I was to take control of the house in the Rue SainteCecile, and Jack Scott the management at Ept. On our deaths the pro¬ perty reverted to his mother’s family in Russia, with the excep¬ tion of the sculptured marbles executed by himself. These he left to me.

The page blurred under our eyes, and Jack got up and walked to the window. Present¬

ly he returned and sat down again. I dreaded to hear what he was going to say; but he spoke with the same simplicity and gentleness.

“Genevieve lies before the ‘Madonna’ in the marble room. The ‘Madonna’ bends tenderly above her, and Genevieve smiles back' into that calm face that never would have been except for her.”

H i s voice broke, but he grasped my hgnd, saying, “Cour¬ age, Alec.” Next morning he left for Ept to fulfill his trust.

IV

THE SAME evening I took the keys and went into the house I had known so well. Ev¬ erything was in order, but the silence was terrbile. Though I went twice to the door of the marble room, I could not force myself to enter. It was beyond my strength. I went into the smoking room and sat down be¬ fore the spinet. A small lace handkerchief lay on the keys, and I turned away, choking. It was plain I could not stay, so I locked every door, every win¬ dow, and the three front and back gates, and went away. Next morning Alcide packed my valise, and, leaving him in charge of my apartments, I. took the Orient express for Constan¬ tinople. During the two years that I wandered through the

The Mask

47

East, at first, in our letters, we never mentioned Genevieve and Boris, but gradually their names crept in. I recollect particularly a passage in one of Jack’s letters replying to one of mine:

“What you tell me of seeing Boris bending over you while you lay ill, and feeling his touch on your face and hearing his voice, of course troubles me. This that you describe must have happened a fortnight after he died. I say to myself that you were dreaming, that it was part of your delirium, but the explanation does not satisfy me, nor would it you.”

Towards the end of the sec¬ ond year a letter came from Jack to me in India so unlike anything that I had ever known of him that I decided to return at once to Paris. He wrote: “I am well, and sell all my pic¬ tures, as artists do who have no need of money. I have not a care of my own; but I am more restless than if I had. I am un¬ able to shake off a strange anxi¬ ety about you. It is not appre¬ hension, it is rather a breathless expectancy — of what, God knows! I can only say it is wear¬ ing me out. Nights I dream al¬ ways of you and Boris. I can never recall anything after¬ wards; but I wake in the morn¬ ing with my heart beating, and all day the excitement increases until I fall asleep at night to re¬ call the same experience. I am

quite exhausted by it, and have determined to break up this morbid condition. I must see you. Shall I go to Bombay or will you come to Paris?”

I telegraphed him to expect me by the next steamer.

When we met I thought he had changed very little; I, he in¬ sisted, looked in splendid health. It was good to hear his voice again, and as we sat and chatted abdut what life still held for us we felt that it was pleasant to be alive in the bright spring weather.

We stayed in Paris together a week, and then I went ;for a week to Ept with him, but first of all we went to the cemetery at Sevres, where Boris lay.

“Shall we place The Fates’ in the little grove above him?” Jack asked, and I answered:

“I think only the ‘Madonna’ should watch over Boris’s grave.” But Jack was none the better for my homecoming. The dreams, of which he could not retain even the least definite outline, continued, and he said that at times the sense of breath¬ less expectancy was suffocating.

“You see, I do you harm and , not good,” I said. “Try a change without me.” So he started alone for a ramble among the Channel Islands, and I went back to Paris. I had not yet en¬ tered Boris’s house, now mine, since my return, but I knew it must be done. It had been kept

48

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

in order by Jack; there were servants there, so I gave up my own apartment and went, there to live. Instead of the agitation I had feared, I found myself able to paint there tranquilly. I visited all the rooms — all but one. I could not bring myself to enter the marble room, where Genevieve lay, and yet I felt the longing growing daily to look upon her face, to kneel be¬ side her.

ONE APRIL afternoon I lay dreaming in the smoking room, just as I had lain two years be¬ fore, and mechanically I looked among the tawny Eastern rugs for the wolf skin. At last I dis¬ tinguished the pointed ears and flat, cruel head, and I thought of my dream, where I saw Gen¬ evieve lying beside it. The hel¬ mets still hung against the threadbare tapestry, among them the old Spanish morion which I remembered Genevieve had once put on when we were amusing ourselves with the an¬ cient bits of mail. I turned my eyes to the spinet; every yellow key seemed eloquent of her ca¬ ressing hand, and I rose, drawn by the strength of my life’s pas¬ sion to the sealed door of the marble room. The heavy doors swung inward under my trem¬ bling hands. Sunlight poured through the window, tipping with gold the wings of Cupid, and lingered like a nimbus over

the brows of the “Madonna”. Her tender face bent in compas¬ sion over a marble form so ex¬ quisitely pure that I knelt and signed myself. Genevieve lay in the shadow under the “Madon¬ na,” and yet, through her white arms, I saw the pale azure vein, and beneath her softly clasped hands the folds of her dress were tinged with rose, as if from some faint, warm light within her breast.

Bending, with a breaking heart, I touched the marble drapery with my lips, then crept back into the silent house.

A maid came and brought me a letter, and I sat down in the little conservatory to read it; but as I was about to break the seal, seeing the girl lingering, I asked her what she wanted.

She stammered something about a white rabbit that had been caught in the house, and asked what should be done with it. I told her to let it loose in the walled garden behind the house, and opened my letter. It was from Jack, but so incoher¬ ent that I thought he must have lost his reason. It was nothing but a series of prayers to me not to leave the house until he could get back; he could not tell me why; there were the dreams, he said — he could explain noth¬ ing, but he was sure that I must not leave the house in the Rue Sainte-Cecile.

As I finished reading I raised

The Mask 49

my eyes and saw the same maid-servant standing in the doorway holding a glass dish in which two gold-fish were swim¬ ming. “Put them back into the tank and tell me what you mean by interrupting me,” I said.

With a half-suppressed whim¬ per she emptied water and fish into an aquarium at the end of the conservatory, and, turning to me, asked my permission to leave my service. She said peo¬ ple were playing tricks on ner, evidently with a design of get¬ ting her into trouble; the marble rabbit had been stolen and a live one had been brought into the house; the two beautiful marble fish were gone, and she had just found those common live things flopping on the din¬

ing room floor. I reassured her and sent her away, saying I would look about myself. I went into the studio; there was noth¬ ing there but my canvasses and some casts, except the marble of the Easter lily. I saw it on a table across the room. Then I strode angrily over to it. But the flower I lifted from the table was fresh and fragile, and filled the air with perfume.

Then suddenly I compre¬ hended, and sprang through the hallway to the marble room. The doors flew open, the sun¬ light streamed into my face, and through it, in a heavenly glory, the “Madonna” smiled, as Genevieve lifted her flushed face from her marble couch and opened her sleepy eyes.

Of the remaining tales that make up the volume, The King in Yellow, only one is definitely a weird tale, “The Demoiselle Dys”. This has been reprinted in several an¬ thologies, to our knowledge, although, so far as we know, there has been no magazine reprint of it since the late ’40’s. Would you like to see it in a future issue of Magazine of Horror and Strange Stories?

Some of the other material can be considered strange; these are mood pieces for the most part. If you would like us to select the most outstanding for future reprint, let us know.

cltlr» ^kaddeuA ^IDarde

Lf RoLert BarLur jU indon

In our first issue (August 1903), we offered you A Thing of Beauty, by Wallace West, a story which had been rejected by Farnsworth Wright of Weird Tales as being too horrible. The present story was not rejected by that magazine; it was accepted — but, alas, the pub¬ lication was suspended before the story could appear. Robert Barbour Johnson’s tales appeared in the 30’s in WT, and one of them ( Far Below) was selected for an anthology entitled Editor’s Choice in Sci¬ ence Fiction, published by McBride in the ’50’s. Edited by Sam Mos- kowitz, this could have been an outstanding volume, but the interfer¬ ence of McBride’s general editor, and the publisher itself, made it’ a travesty. Far Below was only one of the stories which had no place in suoh an anthology (in fact, only two out of the twelve could be considered science Fiction at all), but it was and is a very fine weird tale, a serious treatment of the ghoul theme. The present story takes

IT SEEMS indeed curious that the affair of Mr. Thaddeus Warde should have attracted so little attention.

Almost three years have passed since those singular events in the Catskills; and stjll hardly anything has been writ¬ ten about them. Even verbal dis¬ cussion seems to have complete¬

ly died out. One would almost mink that the thing had never happened, at all!

Which is a most inexplicable state of affairs. For even in an age of Sputniks and Space Races, what took place in that epic September of 1958 would still seem to be important. In¬ deed, it might be described as

50

world-shaking! For here, fully documented and attested, we have what seems to be the only absolutely authentic instance of survival after Death that mod- dern history records. If one ac¬ cepts its implications (and it is difficult to do otherwise, in view of all the evidence ) then we are confronted by something quite outside the normal limits of our human experience.

And yet, though contempo¬ rary Mankind has presumably been seeking just such proof, it seems strangely hesitant to seize upon that evidence, now that it has actually been presented. There is a noticeable tendency to ignore it, even to try to forget about it, entirely. Spiritualist or¬ ganizations and religious groups especially have manifested this tendency. One seeks in vain, in their publications, for even a mention of Mr. Thaddeus Warde. Which is, perhaps, not wholly inexplicable; for while the facts surrounding that gen¬ tleman’s decease do seem to prove Survival of a sort, still, it is not exactly the kind of Sur¬ vival they mean. . . .

And yet it did happen; there is no doubting that. The evidence is overwhelming. Police reports, testimony of reputable witness¬ es, Coroner’s verdicts, news¬ paper files, all combine to attest it. The posthumous doings of Mr. Thaddeus Warde are as well attested as, let us say, the living doings of Mr. Dwight D.

Eisenhower during that same period.

Indeed, the only part of the whole account which is in the least obscure is the previous his¬ tory of its protagonist. Like the thane in Shakespeare’s Mac¬ beth, nothing in Mr. Thaddeus Warde’s life so became him as the leaving it— or at least attract¬ ed nearly so much publicity! We first hear of the man only as he lies dying, in hs ancestral man¬ sion at Deyvillkill, in New York State — one of those small, but very wealthy communities that dot that fashionable region. Be¬ fore that, he seems to have at¬ tracted absolutely no notice.

But then, men like Mr. Warde do not particularly seek to at¬ tract the world’s attention and acclaim; they are quite content merely to exist. For Mr. Warde belonged to that small and rare portion of the American popu¬ lace known as “the Idle Rich”. It is generally believed that there are no more Idle Rich in a na¬ tion convinced of their total disappearance before modern Progress. But despite more than twenty years of hostile Nation¬ al administrations there do still contrive to survive here and there, a few persons who subsist entirely upon unearned incre¬ ment. And Mr. Thaddeus Warde was one of these.

HE WASNT a “Montgomery” Ward; there is an “e” in the name. He was one of the New

51

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

England textile Wardes, the shipping Wardes, and the oil Wardes — to mention only a few of the activities in which his ancestors had been engaged for generations, and become principal stockholders. His in¬ come, even after present-day taxes, was still around a couple of million dollars per annum, which sufficed for his simple needs. Mr. Warde toiled not; neither did Mr. Warde spin. He did nothing, and had done noth¬ ing for almost fifty years of life but be bom, grow up, attend Groton and Harvard, travel a bit, and putter about his ances¬ tral estate at Deyvillkill-On-The- Hudson. He did not even main¬ tain, as did most of his male as¬ sociates, offices in the Metropo¬ lis to which they commuted daily, under the pretense that they were working. Mr. Warde was an old-fashioned Idle Rich, and saw no reason for such mas¬ querade. Moreover he was par¬ simonious, and resented putting up money for the rent. . . .

Such a man could not but re¬ main obscure in a nation uni¬ versally devoted to exactly op¬ posite ideals. He would have been deplored equally by Rota¬ ry Club members and Mr. Nor¬ man Thomas! He was a drone, an excresence upon Society, and completely indefensible. He was not even attractive physically — being a frail, runty individual, with large ears and gold-rimmed spectacles, and almost complete¬

ly bald. He had never partici¬ pated in any sports or athletics; the only trophies he had ever won were on the Groton Debat¬ ing Team (which seems to have lost consistently during the years he was a member of it) and he was definitely not what was known as a ‘mixer’. In short, there was absolutely nothing outstanding or even interesting about Mr. Thaddeus Warde, up to his moment of departure.

And his death, when it oc¬ curred, seemed equally com¬ monplace. For it was, apparent¬ ly, the result of a hunting acci¬ dent — one of scores that take place in the Catskills every Fall, and attract hardly any no¬ tice. There was, perhaps, some passing irony in the fact that the one thing remotely resembl¬ ing a sport in which Mr. Warde occasionally indulged should be the cause of his demise. Or, as his detractors put it, he couldn’t even go pheasant shooting on his own estate without contriv¬ ing to shoot himself!

Be that as it may, he had been found lving in a thicket about a half-mile from his house, half-way through a barbed-wire fence, his discharg¬ ed shotgun lving beside him, and with a hole in his back. He had been carried home by ser¬ vants and neighbors, placed in his own bed and breathing his last in the most decorous and prosaic manner imaginable. His obituary — already ‘set up’ in

The Life-After-Death Of Mr. Thaddeus Warde 53

newspapers, both local and Metropolitan, and only awaiting final word to be printed — simply listed him as among the many victims of the oldest and most routine accident since the invention of firearms!

THERE WERE, of course, one or two small details that did not seem to square with this comforting explanation. It did seem a bit odd that a mere shot¬ gun, dropped accidentally and going off, could have done such very extensive damage to Mr. Warde’s interior! That would seem to be possible only if the muzzle were actually pressing against his back when discharg¬ ed. However, it was certainly Mr. Warde’s own gun; there was no trace of anyone else a- round, and no evidence of foul play. And there.’s no way of pre¬ dicting the exact size of the wound any gun will make. This was a very large one; that was all that could be said.

There was, however, the mat¬ ter of the curious expression on Mr. Warde’s face when he was found. Though completely un¬ conscious (and nothing was more certain than that he would never again regain conscious¬ ness in this world! ) his features registered not shock or surprise, but such a look of concentrated fury and malignity as to startle his finders, when they turned him over. Traces of that expres¬

sion were, in fact, still visible as he lay now on his last bed.

But while such minor matters might arouse curiosity, and even gossip, they were not enough to bring about any sort of police investigation — certainly not in a place like Deyvillkill! Its pop¬ ulation being almost exclusively socialite (with the exception of a few stolid Dutch burghers viewing the antics of these fash¬ ionable invaders of their origi¬ nal homeland with their usual massive incuriosity) even the slightest hint of a crime was de¬ plorable, and to be avoided at all costs. That attitude is tradi¬ tional, and has always been. It will be recalled that when an attempt was made to assassinate J. P. Morgan some years ago, the sole concern of the intend¬ ed victim and his family was to hush the whole matter up, and avoid publicity — which was deemed far worse than the crime itself.

The local police force (five men and a superintendent) were quite aware of this point of view — and also, who paid their salaries! They had no in¬ tention of doing anything that would cause the slightest un¬ pleasantness. They dropped a- round, received the information, filed a routine report of acci¬ dental dearth; and that was that. The following day, a Coroner’s Jury reached a similar verdict, without leaving the box. As for the State Troopers, when they

54

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

arrived, they confined their ef¬ forts to directing traffic in front of the estate.

So the scene was one of com¬ plete decorum and respectabili¬ ty, with nothing whatever to mar it. Outside, the multi-hued glory of the Catskills in Fall, the stately old mansion with its white columns amid still-green lawns, the constant procession of glittering motor vehicles, ar¬ riving and departing with mes¬ sages and condolences to the stricken household. And inside, behind drawn blinds, the ser¬ vants going about on tiptoe. While in the kitchen, the black- clad minions of Mr. Daniel Grew, the fashionable under¬ taker, were waiting to take over the remains’ as soon as they might be officially certified as such.

In the old-fashioned Dutch parlor, the grieving widow was being consoled by a few close friends. For Mr. Warde had a wife! Perhaps the only uncon¬ ventional thing in his otherwise conventonal life. A couple of years before, he had succumbed to matrimony — not in his own set, but a dazzling young wom¬ an from the New York musical stage. Her name had been ‘Crys¬ tal Dawn’, though it was whis¬ pered that it was really O’Shaunessy (of the Lower Flatbush O’Shaunessys ) . How¬ ever, her conduct had been ir¬ reproachable since her arrival in Devvillkill; and her beauty and

charm had made her, on the whole, better liked than her husband was! She had been an excellent spouse in every respect, during her short tenure; and there was no mistaking her tear¬ ful grief for her husband now. Indeed, it struck some of the by¬ standers as a bit excessive; as they whispered privately, she I was not only being relieved of i an unpleasant pipsqueak many 1 years her senior, but was about 1 to become one of New York I State’s richest heiresses in the 1 bargain! Nevertheless, she seem- I ed to be completely prostrated. 1

INDEED, THE only part of I the whole house where anything 1 indecorous was going on was in I that shuttered upper bedroom, I where the master of the house 1 lay in what was supposed to be 1 extremis — surrounded by doc- 1 tors, nurses, medical parapher- 1 nalia, and odors of iodoform 1 and antiseptics. Since the per ; capita wealth of the Deyvillkill I region is perhaps the highest in j the United States, its medical j talent is probably the best, out- 1 side of the Metropolis itself — I and no less than three of the I town’s doctors were in attend- I ance on Mr. Warde. The trouble 1 was, there was absolutely noth- 1 ing they could do for him; there was no earthly possibility of saving a man with injuries so extensive. Important portions of Mr. Warde’s inner workings 1 were clearly visible through the

The Life- After-Death Of Mr. Thaddeus Warde

55

hole in his back, even dangling whitely out onto the bedclothes. If there was little bleeding, this was only because most of his life-blood had already drained away before he was found, staining the fallen autumn leaves a deeper purple. He should, in short, have been a corpse a long time ago.

And yet he wasn’t — quite! That was the incredible fact that faced his physicians. Al¬ most three hours had passed since the accident, and yet life was not wholly extinct in what lay on the bed. There was still an occasional flutter of pulse in the wrists (though one had on¬ ly to look inside to see that the heart was not beating). A mir¬ ror held before the blue lips, still misted occasionally. There was even, from time to time, a twitching of muscles or the flut¬ ter of an eyelid.

In other words, Mr. Warde still lingered in this vale of tears — though how he was managing to do so in his mangled state was quite beyond scientific comprehension. His doctors could only stand there and stare at him, fidgeting, glancing sur¬ reptitiously at their watches, and beginning to worry about wheth¬ er they’d even get home for dinner. Meanwhile, they men¬ tally composed articles for med¬ ical journals on the strangest case that any of them had ever encountered — a man who, with all the physical mechanism of

living completely destroyed, still clung, however microscopically, to life.

Matters were still in this un¬ satisfactory state when young Gordon Van Der Vere arrived. He was a neighbor, a somewhat impecunious gentleman who lived in a small cottage not far from the Warde acres. He was of impeccable pedigree, for New York State, several of his ancestors being Stuyvesants — and one, on . his grandmother’s side, reputedly a Van Der Roos¬ evelt. But he had squandered his own portion of the family inher¬ itance a long time ago, and was now reduced ( it was whispered ) to earning a living by writing stories for magazines, under an alias — something very similar to a crime in Deyvillkill! Yet curiously, he was also one of Mr. Warde’s close friends, which meant he was one of a select few, the latter’s somewhat win¬ try personality not attracting many. But a surprising intimacy seemed to have developed be¬ tween the two dissimilar types; and it was remarked that young Van Der Vere seemed to spend almost as much time in the Warde home as he did in his own small cottage only a couple of miles away. He had been scheduled to accompany his eld¬ erly colleague on the ill-fated hunting excursion, but urgent business with his publisher had compelled him to beg off and drive up to the city instead.

56

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

HE NOW returned hastily, having, he said, heard the sad news in the city and racing his convertible back along the Storm King Highway. He had not ex¬ pected to find Mr. Warde still technically in the land of the living, and expressed amaze¬ ment; the story in New York was that he was already dead. Everyone assured him that that was undoubtedly true in all but name; it would only be a mat¬ ter of minutes — in fact, no one could make out what was hold¬ ing him up!

Mr. Van Der Vere professed appropriate sorrow and grief, and even some self-blame. “If only I’d been with him today, as I promised I would be — if this blasted magazine thing hadn’t interfered — it mightn’t have happened.”

Everyone consoled him and assured him that it was not in any way his fault.

“Don’t be silly,” an elderly neighbor told him. “How could anyone know the damned idiot would be dumb enough not to keep the safety catch on his gun?” The remark caused raised eyebrows, but was apparently an accurate summary of the facts.

Mr. Van Der Vere also spoke a few words of condolence to the widow; they withdrew into a corner and talked in low tones, and he was seen to pat her hand. Then he hurried upstairs to re¬

ceive the latest bulletins on “poor old Thad!”

The doctors, hearing him ' coming, intercepted him in the outer hall. “There’s no earthly ; point in your going in,” they as¬ sured him. “You’d only harrow j yourself for nothing — it’s an un- 1 pleasant sight, and there’s noth- , ing anyone can do. He’ll die any ; minute.”

“You don’t suppose there’s a chance that he might recognize j me?” Van Der Vere asked.

“Recognize? Good heavens, 1 no! He’ll never know anyone a- gain. It’s quite hopeless.” They j started to describe Mr. Warde’s j puzzling condition, but in the middle of it there was a sudden wild scream from the nurse in- ! side, and also a curious dull thud.

They all rushed to the sick¬ room door and flung it open. A j most extraordinary sight con- J fronted them. The nurse, open- -j mouthed, was crouching behind 1 the bed and pointing wildly. Mr. Warde was not in the bed; he j was lying on the floor facing 1 them. He lay prone, arms and | legs extended and head raised ; stiffly like a turtle’s. His eyes were wide open and he seemed ] to be staring at them. His mouth j was also wide open, with an ef¬ fect of snarling. The dim light j lent a curious illusion of move-] ment, as if he were actually! crawling toward them.

For a moment, sheer amaze- 1 ment held them all paralyzed. 3

The Life-After-Death <

Then the doctors rushed for¬ ward, lifted the prone form, and hastily restored it to the bed. It was immediately apparent what happened. Some last dying, con¬ vulsion, a rigor of muscles.

“Extraordinary!” Dr. Pelham" muttered. “Never encountered one of such magnitude and vio¬ lence. I must write it up for the Journal. . . . Must have flung the dying man into that fantas¬ tic position.” For that he was dead, there was now no ques¬ tion. The mirror no longer mist¬ ed; the flesh no longer twitched. Mr. Thaddeus Warde was now completely and certifiably dead.

The doctors drew the conven¬ tional sheet over his face, gath¬ ered up their paraphernalia, and left the room. “Er — no need to mention that little contretemps downstairs, eh Mr. Van Der Vere?” But Van Der Vere seem¬ ed quite incapable of mention¬ ing anything.

BELOW, THE doctors receiv¬ ed the wan thanks of the widow and her friends, and accepted drinks that the servants were passing around. Then, with the air of men whose work has been well done, they hurried out to their waiting limousines and home to belated dinners. In the room they’d left behind, Mr. Grew’s young men in black, un¬ leashed at last, were already preparing to load the corpse on¬ to their portable trestle and

Mr. Thaddeus Warde 57

whisk it away to the undertak- ingparlors.

They got it aboard (flirting with the nurses meanwhile ) ana started out with it — through the back way, so as not to dis¬ turb the guests below. But half¬ way along the hall, there was an interruption. “Look out! He’s sliding off!” one of them gasped. “Grab him!”

It was true; one of Mr. Warde’s limp hands was already touching the carpet. They man¬ aged to right him, with some effort, and moved on.

“Funny!” the other young man muttered. “Never knew a stiff to slide off the wheelbarrow before, did you?” But the same thing happened twice more be¬ fore they got the remains down¬ stairs and loaded into their sleek black van. Though completely inert, Mr. Warde evidenced a most odd disinclination to stay put. It was decided that one of the men would ride inside to steady him in place, while the other drove the vehicle slowly and carefully to Mr. Grew’s neat Georgian brick establishment on the main street of Deyvillkill, some seven miles away.

Mr. Daniel Grew himself was waiting for them at the service entrance, fuming and looking at his watch. “What the devil kept you so long?” he barked as they drove up. He was anxious to get home to his own dinner; but, in view of his client’s prominence, he had thought it best to tarry.

58

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

“Had to wait for the old buz¬ zard to kick off!” the assistant explained. “He took an awful long time doing it. Docs can’t figure it out. And he kept slid- in’ off the meat cart when we were wheelin’ him down. That held us up still more.”

“Sliding off the trestle, eh?” Mr. Grew eyed him balefully. “If there’s one thing 1 won’t stand for it’s drinking on the job! All right, you lugs, I’ll wheel him in myself. You two walk on each side of him, and brace him. That way, we’ll take no chances.”

That was the order followed. The body was trundled to soft recorded organ music, through the already flower-banked cha¬ pel and posh retiring-rooms to a large bare laboratory in the rear, where the more utilitarian aspects of t h e profession were carried on. And even Mr. Grew had to admit that the body did have a curious tendency to fall off.

“Odd!” he grumbled. “Guess we’ll have to order a new tres¬ tle; that one must be wearing out. Oh, well, when I bill the Departed’s estate for this job, I can afford a whole new build¬ ing!”

Then, after an interval for dining, the staff rolled up its sleeves and got to work prepar¬ ing the remains for the formal lying in state’ the next day. And they labored far into the night. Over the precise details of their

work, we will not linger, since it might prove disturbing to sen¬ sitive readers. Suffice it to say that if Mr. Warde had not been dead when they began, he cer¬ tainly was by the time they fin¬ ished with him! And if there were moments when the rubber- gloved and aproned Mr. Grew and his assistants seemed to be wrestling with the corpse, it was only because a premature rigor mortis seemed to have set in, curiously resisting their work at times.

But of life, there could be no question. Modern embalming processes, if not quite so thor¬ ough as those of the ancient Egyptians, likewise involve the total removal of interior organs, the draining of all blood, and filling of the veins with poison¬ ous preservative fluids. What was left on the slab when the job was done was not a man at all, but only a sort of husk — scarcely more than the discard¬ ed shell of a cicada. Everything vital had been flushed down drains or rendered in vats

The countenance of the de- ceasd presented a more difficult problem. All through the pro¬ ceedings it persisted in wearing an expression which the youth¬ ful assistants found distinctly up¬ setting, even in the bright labor¬ atory lights.

“It’s scarv!” one of jthem com¬ plained. “Never saw anything like it. My God, we can’t show

The Life-After-Death Of Mr. Thaddeus Warde

him like that! People would faint ...”

Mr. Grew was finally com¬ pelled to resort to some small metal clips, which he produced from a drawer. “Always keep these for emergencies,” he said, hammering them expertly into place. “Never know when you’ll get one of these stubborn bas¬ tards! Much better than safety pins.” The shiny points, protrud¬ ing sightly, he camouflaged with lip-rouge. So with a little glue on the eyelids, and some cotton waste up the nostrils, the face of the dead man was finally made to assume its proper ex¬ pression of dignity and peace.

THE BODY LAY in the cha¬ pel all through the next day and night, while everybody who was anybody in upper New York State filed past to view it. The spectators, of course, did not say “Doesn’t he look natural?” but they mumured well-bred e- quivalents. Mr. Grew, hovering about with somewhat the air of a sculptor unveiling a master¬ piece, received many compli¬ ments. There were no untoward incidents of any kind during the period the remains were in the Parlors — though, judging from the strained expression of the staff, there seemed to be some apprehension that there might be! Mr. Grew, for reasons best known to himself, cranked the heavy metal coffin-lid down when the place was closed for

the night at ten o’clock. And if the watchman heard peculiar sounds in the midnight hours — well, the building was known to harbor rats.

The following afternoon, the funeral took place; and the cof¬ fin was interred with due cere¬ mony in the Warde family plot in Greenwood Cemetery. Al¬ most a hundred of Warde’s so¬ cial equals saw him laid to rest amid flowers and eulogies, while a hired choir sang “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide. . . .”

The ceremonies, however, were rudely marred. One of those sudden, violent thunder¬ storms that plague the Catskill region descended with some fury, just when the Reverend Mr. Denby reached his “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Rain de¬ scended in torrents and thunder quite drowned out the service. The mourners, in drenched or- andy and broadcloth, sought asty refuge in their automo¬ biles and watched from there, through intermittent lightning flashes, while the coffin was hurriedly lowered into the grave and tarpaulins spread over the excavation as a temporary shel¬ ter. Filling in of the soil would have to wait until the storm had ended.- The bedraggled cortege then returned to town and the restoration of liquid refresh¬ ments. It was a curiously sinis¬ ter ending for the event — and perhaps an omen for what was come.

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

For it was only a couple of hours later that the great scan¬ dal broke. The storm had not blown itself out quickly as Catskill storms usually do, but had settled to a steady down- pom- that might last indefinitely. So about four o’clock, the sex¬ tons finally sallied forth, rain- coated, to begin filling in the grave before it accumulated too much water. And they made a most shocking and mysterious discovery. Wild telephone calls brought police cars screeching to the scene, and patrolmen aqd gray-clad Troopers were soon swarming all over the cemetery.

THERE HAD apparently been a case of body-snatching in broad daylight, and without conceivable motive! Persons un¬ known had somehow removed Mr. Warde’s body from the op¬ en grave and made off with it, under cover of the storm. It is possible that in the excitement, the lid of the “Eternity Coffin” had not been properly sealed. At all events, it was now stand¬ ing open; the inner glass lid had been smashed and tne white silk cushions beneath were quite empty. Of its late occupant there was no trace, except some curious marks in the turf where something had apparently been dragged away. There were 'no footprints or other evidence of vandalism. No one had seen a car arrive or leave, and the grave was at least half a mile

from the cemetery’s iron gates.

The whole thing baffled the police completely; they’d never had a case like it. And despite all efforts to keep it quiet, it leaked out to the press. News¬ papers in distant Times Square and Broadway were proclaim¬ ing the crime within an hour. AP and UP dispatches soon had it all over the nation, and even abroad. It created something of a sensation. The morbid nature of the snatching, plus the wealth of the ‘victim’, combined to make it almost another Lind¬ bergh case. Mr. Thaddeus Warde’s name suddenly became almost as famous, posthumous¬ ly, as that of a television croon¬ er, or a hatchet murderer. And Deyvillkill itself was the focus of nationwide attention, to the horror of its staid inhabitants. Reporters, investigators, and the morbidly curious descended on the hapless community from all sides, taxing its resources and making investigation the more difficult.

The entire State Police or¬ ganization was thrown in. to as¬ sist the overburdened local force, and a carload of trained city detectives were rushed down from New York to help in the search. The whole end of the State was turned upside down. Yet, two days went by without even a trace of the miss¬ ing remains being found or even a clew as to why they might have been abstracted. A wild

The Life-After-Death

theory that the body might be “held for ransom” gradually faded out as time went on and no demands were made. Anoth¬ er theory, that it might have been stolen for medical research (which seemed fantastic in these modem days; but the au¬ thorities were grasping at straws) also petered out. Offi¬ cialdom found itself at a com¬ plete dead end. There was ab¬ solutely ho rational explanation of why Mr. Warde’s body should have been taken. Yet, it was gone; and it stubbornly re¬ fused to turn up.

The rain was continuing all this time — a record Fall down¬ pour, toning roads to running streams and earth to quagmire, hampering the searchers still further. But the harried police could not wait for the weather to change; they were under too much pressure from the influ¬ ential residents to get the thing cleared up and shift the unbear¬ able spotlight of publicity away from their community, which had never endured such a hor¬ ror before. The hunt went on.

AND, TO ADD to their prob¬ lems, the harried police found themselves plagued by a second mystery, one that seemed to have no conceivable connection with the other. The desk-ser¬ geant who took the first call on it, looked completely bewil¬ dered.

"We ain’t got troubles e-

Mr. Thaddeus Warde 61

nough!” he announced. “Now it’s alligators!”

“Alligators?” the Superintend¬ ent snapped. ‘What are you talking about?”

“Fact! Guy just ’phoned in to say he seen an alligator out on the old North Road. It was crawlin’ along in a ditch hout two miles from the Cemetery. He passed it in his car. He stop¬ ped an’ went back to look for it, but it had slithered off in the grass. But he swears it was at least six feet long!”

“He’s crazy!” His superior frowned. “There aren’t any alli¬ gators in New England. They belong in Florda, thousands of miles to the south! None has ever been seen in these parts, certainly not one that size. Of course, one might have escaped from a circus or carnival. And that big, it could certainly be dangerous!”

“Yeah.” The sergeant yawned. “However, the way I figger it, the guy was plastered! He sounded like it over the ’phone.”

But alas, the explanation was not that simple. In the days that followed, at least a dozen peo¬ ple reported seeing something long and blackish and wetly shimmering, crawling blindly through the rain and mud of the old North Road. It was glimpsed in car headlights at night and even in daylight. It was seen splashing through flooded ditch¬ es, slithering in tall grass, and even crossing highways. Once

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

it was recorded as swimming in a swollen mountain pool.

All descriptions tallied ’and seemed to suggest some sort of large reptile. It dragged itself along on its belly with curious¬ ly stiff and fumbling move¬ ments, head down and should¬ ers humped. It was apparently between five and six feet in length. It was strangely bold and fearless, keeping close to paved roadways, and ignoring passing vehicles. But it always contrived to slither off into bushes and thickets when approached on foot.

No one ever got a close look at it, but it left tracks in deep mud which remained visible un¬ til the rain washed them out. And one of the police officers, who had been born in Louisiana, identified these prints as dis¬ tinctly “gator-like”. He even pointed out hand-shaped marks that could have been made by the forefeet, and a wavy line in the rear that suggested the drag¬ ging tail. ...

However, no real search was made for the creature. The auth¬ orities were far too busy to en¬ gage in an alligator-hunt, along with their other troubles. There were no reports of missing live¬ stock or injury to anyone; the beast seemed harmless, whatev¬ er it was. It appeared to be. cir¬ cling die town itself, avoiding it, keeping to back lanes and al¬ leys. There was an odd sugges¬ tion of purpose in its move¬

ments. Though progressing on¬ ly a short distance in a day, it kept going, and always in die same general direction — very strange behavior, indeed, for a saurian! It was first seen on the cemetery side of the town, then behind it, and then on the far road heading toward the large estates that lay beyond. It seem¬ ed only a nuisance, not an actu¬ al menace. The authoriites is¬ sued orders to their men to shoot the thing on sight, if they should encounter it, and, in the meantime, keep going on their main search.

But the “beast’ aroused much comment and speculation. Some of the visiting newshawks, lack¬ ing anything on the Warde Case to write about, cabled in lurid descriptions of it, enlarging its size considerably. One or two of the more sensational ones even recalled the old Dutch le¬ gends of Deyvill’s mythical ‘dra¬ gonlike’ monsters, supposed to have inhabited the Catskills in early days, that had given the town its name. They suggested that this might be a modem, dwarfed survival. Which was, in a sense, perhaps nearer to the truth than they, dreamed. . . .

FOR IT WAS on the evening of September 18th that a third mystery arose — one that was to provide at least a partial ex¬ planation of the other two.

It began around midnight with a series of wild telephone

The Life-After-Death (

calls from Mr. Gordon Van Der Vere in his small tumbledown cottage out by the edge of the Warde estate. Someone, or some¬ thing, Mr. Van Der Vere insist¬ ed, was trying to break into his house! He demanded that the police come out and protect him from it.

He had, he told the desk-ser¬ geant, been out for the evening (he didn’t say where ) and on his return, on foot, something had come out of the bushes and fol¬ lowed him up the driveway. He’d gotten into his house safe¬ ly ana slammed the door, but “it” was now beseiging the place. He was curiously inexpli¬ cit as to the nature of his at¬ tacker, and indeed, tended to become almost hysterical when pressed for details, or when it was suggested that someone might be playing a joke on him. That the thing’s intent was hos¬ tile and lethal he seemed to have no doubt. He spoke vague¬ ly of scratchings and poundings on the front door, of attempts on die windows, and even of sounds indicating that it had crawled up on the roof and was trying to come down the chim¬ ney! He had, he said, caught glimpses of his assailant in the moonlight, and had even fired at it through the windows with his revolver, but apparently without result. He must have immediate help, he insisted; his life was in danger!

The police were sympathetic.

Mr. Thaddeus Warde 63

but in no position to comply with his request. With the Warde search still in full swing, and taxed far beyond their small capacity, they could not spare a man to hold the hand of some drunken socialite who was probably only panicked by some prowling animal! The Catskills abound with all sorts of wild life, despite close proximity to the world’s largest city; they got such Routine calls almost every night. They advised him to stay indoors, keep all doors locked, and if the creature tried to break in, simply to shoot it. His reply that he fiad already shot at it through the windows and was certain that he had hit it, but with no visible effect, was disregarded as proof of ad¬ vanced intoxication.

Two subsequent appeals, each wilder and more hysterical than the last, met with a similar re¬ ception. They were polite but firm; he would have to wait. Another call shortly before mid¬ night (made in a sort of cawing shriek, and completely incoher¬ ent) was cut off; the desk-ser¬ geant hung up on him. “That guy’s completely nuts!” he grunted in disgust.

There was, however, no pos¬ sibility of disregarding the final call, which came in shortly be¬ fore midnight. Mr. Van Der Vere’s voice, though still hyster- cad, had the tone of a man who has come to a momentous de¬ cision. He wished, he said, to

64

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

confess to the murder of Mr. Thaddeus Warde. He demand¬ ed that the police come and ar¬ rest him for it. He had never liked Warde — only pretended to in order to enjoy an affair with his wife; and the millions she would inherit was the mo¬ tive for the shooting which he now deeply regretted. (His voice rose wildly at that point.) But he was ready to sign a full confession once he was locked up and safe — that was the word he used and he accented it heavily — in jail!

Naturally, this produced im¬ mediate results. The Superin¬ tendent and the sergeant were in the former’s car and racing toward the scene in less than one minute! Granted the man was drunk, his story made sense and had to be investigated. They picked up a Trooper car enroute, a motorcycle offcer, and a carload of the invidious reporters, who were cruising a- bout looking for any develop¬ ments. Quite a cavalcade of as¬ sistance rolled up in front of the Van Der Vere cottage in almost less time than it takes to tell a- bout it.

Even so, they were too late. The place stood curiously silent and deserted-looking in the pale autumn moonlight. The lights inside were all on and blazing brightly, but no one answered their repeated knocking*.

“Queer!” one of the officers

muttered, “after all that excite¬ ment . . .”

They moved around to the side of the house and discovered one of the French windows smashed and open, as if some¬ thing had crashed through it and entered that way. Within they found the living-room a complete shambles, furniture overturned, and vases broken, as though a terrific struggle had taken place. Mr. Gordon Van Der Vere was lying in the mid¬ dle of it, an empty revolver in his hand, and quite dead.

There was not a mark on his body, and his death was offi¬ cially pronounced as heart fail¬ ure — though there were cer¬ tainly contributing factors! For one thing, lying quite near the body was what the police first thought was a bundle of old clothes. But when they turned it over, they found it was the missing corpse of Mr. Thaddeus Warde! Still very dead — but with what remained of its hands almost touching Van Der Vere’s throat . . .

AS I SAID at the beginning, the case of Mr. Thaddeus Warde is the only completley authentic case of survival after death that modern history re¬ cords. There are those, of course, who will not admit that, to this day; who still prate vaguely of persons unknown who somehow managed to smuggle a prominent body out

The Life-AfteT-Death Of Mr. Thaddeus Warde

65

of a cemetery in broad daylight and keep it hidden during the most extensive police search in Upper New York State’s whole annals. Who these all-knowing and all powerful ones may have been, of course, they do not say. Still, it is a comforting theory; and I, for one, only wish I could believe it.

But there are a few details that simply cannot be made to square with it. There was, for one, the condition of Mr. Warde’s body when they found it. It was not at all in the shape of one that has merely been kept somewhere! Mr. Grew and his men, indeed, threw up their hands at the task of restoring it and reburied it hastily, without ceremony. It was battered, it was rain-soaked and bedrag¬ gled, and curiously worn away in portions underneath, as if it had been dragged for miles over asphalt. The neat funeral cloth¬ ing was in rags and tatters, like¬ wise, mostly underneath. As for its hands, they were mere vesti- gal stumps, the flesh quite worn away and not even fingers re¬ maining on them. There were bits of glass embedded all over the corpse, and several fresh bullets were in it — bullets which the ballistics experts matched exactly with Van Der Vere’s emptied revolver.

In short, that body was in precisely the condition it would have been in had it somehow

managed to escape from its cof¬ fin, crawl out of its own grave, and somehow drag itself over the dozen or more miles that separated it from its goal; tak¬ ing days and nights in the jour¬ ney; seen by many people along the way but mistaken for an animal, (which it must have been, of course, or even lower) all semblance of humanity de¬ parted. Blind, crawling, unable to stand erect or walk — not even conscious, for there was no brain — yet still moving, power¬ ed by Something, perhaps only an urge, like that of a homing pigeon — with the exception, of course, that a homing pigeon happens to be alive! And reach¬ ing the cottage, breaking into it, ignoring bullets and resistance to pull down the unsuspected one who had betrayed and inur- derd him. I am not offering this as an explanation, you under¬ stand. I am simply stating the facts which are on record and can be easily verified. You may draw your own conclusion.

But there is one other small detail which seems to confirm it. For it was observed by all when they turned him over; that on what remained of Mr. Warde’s face, there was now a singularly broad, malignant, and wholly triumphant smile!

Though that, perhaps, may have been only because a cou¬ ple of Mr. Grew’s steel clips seemed somehow to have work¬ ed loose.

^emiftme fraction

by jbaviJ rinneff

David Grinnell’s first story, Top Secret, appeared in 1950; and while he has written some novels since then, the majority of his appearances have been with brief, sardonic tales, often exploring little-known sci¬ entific theories or crochets.

YOU KNOW, just sitting a- round here in Paris in the springtime, brings back so many old memories, Jack, that I’m glad you showed up. Isn’t there some old saying that if you sit here at this corner, sipping an aperitif, that by and by the whole world will pass by? So you’re proof of it — an old bud¬ dy from my company I hadn’t seen in — gosh, how many years has it been since we were mus¬ tered out?

Anyway, this is a great place to sit and ogle the girls. Paris has changed a bit, but these lit¬ tle French chicks, they’re still a

delight to the eye. So feminine. Makes me wonder sometimes about Weininger’s theory.

Weininger? You never heard of him? Well, I guess that’s not surprising, considering he was a boy genius who died in his early twenties after writing just one great thesis. He was the fellow who brought out the idea that there is no such thing as one hun¬ dred per cent male and a hun¬ dred per cent female. He said every person has something of the opposite sex in him. Every man has maybe ten or twenty per cent woman in him and every woman has ten or twenty

per cent man. Some people have more, some have less, but we all have some.

I know, you don’t believe it at first. Seems to insult your manhood, but think about it. I don’t really think that a person who was 100% masculine could even stand to be around a wom¬ an. Everything she did would be incomprehensible and annoy¬ ing. Acutely irritating. No, I think it’s pretty obvious when you ponder it. Most psycholo¬ gists today agree the theory is valid.

Oh, I know — you always were -a skeptic. Prove it? Well ... I can, as a matter of fact. Sure, I can. Hold on a minute, order another cognac and I’ll see if I can refresh your memory.

Remember Louis Tyler who used to be in our outfit back when we were first in training? Sure, you do. I thought you would: Rather slight, fair-haired boy, quiet but real clever. He used to hang out with us, you and me and one or two others. Then he was shifted from our company and sent to some sort of hush-hush OSS school. He spoke French like a native — he’d been raised here as a boy and they were going to use him for some pre-D-Day operations.

I saw him several times in England before we went in — we were still the best of friends. He’d get off on a leave once in a while, look me up and I’d wangle a pass for the evening.

We’d make a night of it. He was actually a pretty lonely guy, I guess. I learned a lot about him. His mother had been in France when the Nazis came in — he had heard she was dead accord¬ ing to some underground source in the OSS offices. His father — divorced or something. He never mentioned him. Hated him, I think.

LOUIS USED TO confide some of his worries to me, but he was a nice guy. We used to go wenching together in Lon¬ don and he had a way with the gals. Maybe it’s that French upbringing, or maybe he sort of understood them better than most, but he sure could knock ’em dead.

Anyway, he was dropped by parachute into France a few weeks before the invasion. I don’t know his exact mission, but it was pretty important. I believe he knew the exact dates and places of the landings — not the false information that had been let slip, but the real dope. It was vital for certain people in the French Underground to know them. Louis was one of the men chosen to tell them.

I saw him before he jumped. He couldn’t tell me his mission — what I know I found out after the war — but I knew he was set to go because he was ner¬ vous. Louis was a brave guy — but he was a little nervous that

67

MAGAZINE OF HORROR

night. Who wouldn’t be? He asked me then did I mind the fact that he’d named me his heir in case he never came back? He’d nobody else he really trust¬ ed. I said, “Heck, you’ll be back. He shrugged . . . said if he did¬ n’t, would I at least try to find out what happened to him, may¬ be put a marker on his grave. Louis was sort of religious and a very sincere guy.

So when we shook hands that night in London, I said, “Don’t worry. I never let a friend down.” He looked me in the eye and said, “I trust you.”

D-Day came and went. My outfit was in it, and I’m not talk¬ ing about it because you were there alongside me, Jack, and you know what it was like. Hell, sheer hell.

But now think, Jack. Remem¬ ber a certain town we went through on our way to Paris — a small village, let’s see — Bois le Chateau, no, that’s not quite right, well, something like that. And do you remember that I was on recon on our front and went into that village a bit ahead of the rest of the compa¬ ny. The Germans had pulled out fortunately, or maybe I would¬ n’t be here to tell the tale.

Let me explain something you don’t know and didn’t know then. I was attached to Intelli¬ gence — and I had a private mission to perform. We had heard that the Nazis had some of our OSS men here — ’chutists

they’d captured and had been interrogating at the old chateau that gave the town its name. I was supposed to get there first, if I could, find out what hap¬ pened, maybe get the dope or the papers or whatnot before the rest of the company came along.

Sd I go there. The Germans had left, the villagers had gone into hiding, and I got into the chateau with my sidekicks covering me with Garands.

It was the place, all right. We found several of our men down in the cellar, in dungeons left over from the ancient times. Two were dead — they’d tried to get information from them the crude way and failed. I won’t go into the details. You’ve read a- bout Gestapo methods — they’re just what they said they were, and worse.

A COUPLE more were in¬ sane. It seems they’d had a new technique they were trying out, a really vicious thing — and I can say it didn’t succeed in spite of everything. Our men were gohd — they never talked.

This device — it had been invented very shortly before and they were testing it on this batch of ’chutists because they guessed somebody among them might know the date of the coming attack. They were right — but they didn’t know the stamina of our fellows.

It seems they first drugged

The Feminine Fraction

their victim, a sort of hypnotic type of drug that can cause per¬ manent damage, the splitting of personality, schizophrenia, de¬ mentia, death. Under the drug, they focussed some sort of elec¬ tric current and pressure that loaded the victim with electrici¬ ty — painful, which was part of it, and having a terrible effect on the brain and nervous sys¬ tem, as well as the whole body — and that was another part of it.

The idea was to shatter his personality so thoroughly that everything hidden in the mind would be fragmented, complete¬ ly tom apart from everything else. It literally shredded, splin¬ tered the ego and left the mem¬ ories flying wide open ... At least that was the theory. The first man we found alive was hopelessly insane, terribly burn¬ ed, a quivering wreck.

He didn’t live long. There was nothing to be done for him.

I found the Gestapo’s lists, and Louis Tyler’s name was on it. He was down there some¬ where, in the dungeons, a victim of the new technique.

We found a couple more guys first, also out of their minds, dy¬ ing. One was badly twisted in body, sort of tom apart, strange¬ ly burned — melted is how I’d describe his appearance. I don’t like to think about it.

I found the cell where Louis was supposed to be. I got it

open — the Nazis had left only a few hours before.

No, I didn’t find Louis. Louis was gone; well, 90 per cent of him was gone. There is no such person. I found something in that cell. Crouching in the corner was a little girl. Just a little girl, blondish, looking about five years old, whimpering, wearing part of a man’s shirt — a French workman’s blue blouse like Lou¬ is would, have worn when he ’chuted in.

I took that little girl with me. She knew me, came running to me when she saw me. She took my hand and she trusted me. I took her back with me to the town and the company.

Of course, I didn’t take her through the war. I had to turn her over to the folks who took care of the war orphans, but I put my claim on her. I adopted her, because nobody else ever claimed her. Officially adopted her. She’s been raised in France at my expense and on the mon¬ ey from Louis Tyler’s G.I. insur¬ ance. Private schools, foster homes, all that — after all, I’m not married and what was I go¬ ing to do with a little girl tug¬ ging at my heels back in the States?

Anyway, I come to France every year and meet her and act like a father to her. She’s a dear — engaged now and wanted me to meet her boy friend and give my approval. I’m waiting for

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MAGAZINE OF HORROR

her now. She’s going to meet me here. ,

Who was she really? Well, I don’t know. I know that story about Louis Tyler sounds sort of wild — and, sure that’s all conjecture about Weininger. So maybe ten per cent of any man is feminine. I guess that held true for Louis, like anyone else. I like to kid myself into thinking so.

Oh, here she is. See that pret¬ ty blonde coming across the square? The one with the cute pill box hat and the long hair.

Some figure, eh? Ahh, these Paris cuties. Mmmm.

“Hello, darling, my you’re looking good. Oh, may I intro¬ duce an old Army buddy. Oh, you know him, remembered him from back when. Sure, you’re right, darling, this is Jack Old¬ field. Some things come back to you . . .

“Jack, don’t stand there gap¬ ing. For gosh sake, pull yourself together. May I introduce my adopted daughter, Louise?”

In our May issue, we asked if you, the readers, would like to see H. P. Lovecraft’s famous essay, Supernatural Horror in Literature run here, explaining that, due to the length, it would have to be presented in installments.

This is being written about a month later than the material presented in this issue’s “It Says Here”. So far, the votes have been something more than two to one in favor. However, we need a great many more returns from you on this question before we can reach a fan- decision. If you have not expressed yourself, won’t you let us know how you feel on this question?

*2)r. clieidecfcjer 4 Experiment

Lu f/a thaniei w thorn e

In his love for the past and the free play of his imagination within self-imposed bounds, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) makes one think of II. P. Lovecraft, but we cannot push the resemblance any farther, except perhaps for a common love of symbolism. For although in his own life and personal philosophy, Lovecraft was no less the ethical gentleman than Hawthorne, you do not find very much moral¬ izing in HPL’s fiction, while Hawthorne’s tales are permeated by Puritanism and ethicism. Highly imaginative as his short stories are, filled with the stuff of fantasy and weird fiction, it would have been unthinkable for him to write such a tale for its own sake; all must lead up to the moral instruction which is the reason for the narrative. Despite this, the Twice-Told Tales (1837) retain their initial charm, and the moral is bearable for the sake of a well-told story.

THAT VERY singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study. There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Medboum, Colonel Killi- grew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, who had been unfor¬ tunate in life, and whose great¬ est misfortune it was that they

were not long ago in their graves.

Mr. Medboume, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosper¬ ous merchant, and had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little better than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout.

71

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MAGAZINE OF HORROR

and divers other torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil fame, or at least had been so, till time had buried him from the knowledge of the present generation, and made him ob¬ scure instead of infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradi¬ tion tells us that she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had lived in deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories, which had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a cir¬ cumstance worth mentioning, that each of these three old gen¬ tlemen, Mr. Medboume, Colo¬ nel Kilhgrew, and Mr. Gascoigne were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each oth¬ er’s throats for her sake. And, before proceeding farther, I will merely hint, that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves; as is not un- frequently the case with old people, when worried either by present troubles or woeful recol¬ lections.

“My dear old friends,” said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated, "I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments with which I amuse myself here in my study.”

If all stories were true. Dr. Heidegger’s study must have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned cham¬

ber, festooned with cobwebs and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were fill¬ ed with rows of gigantic folios and black-letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment-cov¬ ered duodecimos. Over the cen¬ tral bookcase was a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, ac¬ cording to some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was aocustomed to hold consultations, in all diffi¬ cult cases of his practice. In the obscurest comer of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, with¬ in which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high and dusty

Slate within a tarnished gilt •ame. Among many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that the spirits of all the doctor’s deceased patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thither¬ ward.

The opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the fad¬ ed magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a century ago, Dr. Heideg¬ ger had been on the point of marriage with this young lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had swal-

Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment 73

lowed one of her lover’s pre¬ scriptions, and died on the brid¬ al evening. The greatest curiosi¬ ty of the study remains to be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of the book. But it was well known to be a book of ma¬ gic; and once, when a chamber¬ maid had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, the skele¬ ton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the brazen head of Hippo¬ crates frowned, and said, “For¬ bear!”

SUCH WAS Dr. Heidegger’s study. On the summer afternoon of our tale, a small round table, as black as ebony, stood in the center of the room, sustaining a cut-glass vase, of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. The sunshine came through the win¬ dow, between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains, and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild splendor was re¬ flected from it on the ashen vi¬ sages of the five old people who sat around. Four champaene- glasses were also on the table.

“Mv dear friends,” repeated Dr. Heideecer, “mav I reckon on your aid in performing an

exceedingly curious experi¬ ment?”

Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange o 1 d gentleman whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a thousand fan¬ tastic stories. Some of these fa¬ bles, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to mine own veracious self; and if any passages of the present tale should startle the reader’s faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a fiction-monger.

When the doctor’s four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air- pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering his intimates. But without waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, bound in black leather, which common report affirmed to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from among its black-letter pag¬ es a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doc¬ tor’s hands.

“This rose,” said Dr. Heideg¬ ger. with a sigh, “this same with¬ ered and crumbling flower, bios-

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MAGAZINE OF HORROR

somed five-and-fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yo'nder; and I meant to wear it in my bosom at our wedding. Five- and-fifty years it has been trea¬ sured between the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?”

“Nonsense!” said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head. “You might as well