Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep12: Episode 12: Never Walk on the Moors Alone at Night

Episode Date: January 14, 2021

In this episode, for your listening delight, four terrifying horror stories from some of the world's greatest-ever writers! Today’s opening tale of terror is ‘Across the Moors’, a classic work by William F. Harvey, a story in the public domain but recorded here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Across_the_Moors Today’s second tale of terror is ‘The Well’, a classic work by W.W. Jacobs, a story in the public domain but recorded here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: W.W. Jacobs https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Well Today’s penultimate tale of the macabre is ‘Old Garfield's Heart’, a classic work by Robert E. Howard, a story in the public domain but recorded here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks08/0801211h.html Today’s final offering is ‘The Abominations of Yondo’, a classic work by Clark Ashton Smith; a story in the public domain, but recorded here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Abominations_of_Yondo

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.ca. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Well, it has been said that there are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man's evil prying caused them just within our age. Four stories of just such prying for you this evening from the Masters of Horror.

William F. Harvey, W.W. Jacobs, Robert E. Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith. We begin tonight's podcast with Across the Moors by Harvey. But before we begin, as ever a word of caution, tonight's tales may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of acts of a horrific and violent nature. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. It really was most unfortunate. Peggy had a temperature of nearly 100,

and a pain in her side, and Mrs. Workington Bankroft knew that it was appendicitis, but there was no one whom she could send for the doctor. James had gone with the jaunting car to meet her husband, who had at last managed to get away for a week's shooting. Adolf, she'd sent to the Eversham's only half an hour before, with a note for Lady Eva. The cook could not manage to walk, even if dinner could be served without her.

Kate, as usual, was not to be trusted. and there remained Miss Craig. Of course you must see that Peggy is really ill, said she, as the governess came into the room in answer to her summons. The difficulty is that there is absolutely no one whom I can send for the doctor. Mrs. Workington Bankroft paused. She was always willing that those beneath her should have the privilege of offering the services which it was her right to command.

So, perhaps Miss Craig. She went on. You wouldn't mind walking over to Tebitt's farm. I hear there's a Liverpool doctor staying there. Of course I know nothing about him, but we must take the risk, and I expect he'll be only too glad to be earning something during his holiday. It's nearly four miles away, I know, and I'd never dream of asking you, if it was not,

that I dread appendicitas so. Very well, said Miss Craig. I suppose I must go, but I don't know the way. Oh, you can't miss it, said Mrs. Working to Bancroft, in her anxiety temporarily forgiving the obvious unwillingness of her governess's consent. You follow the road across the moor for two miles, until you come to Red Man's Cross. You turn to the left there and follow a rough path that leads through a large plantation, and Tebitt's farm lies just below you in the valley. Oh, and take Pontiff with you, she added, as the girl left the room. There's absolutely nothing to be afraid of, but I expect you'll feel happier with the dog.

Well, miss, said the cook when Miss Craig went into the kitchen to get her boots, which had been drying by the fire. Of course she knows best, but I don't think it's right that, after all it's happened, for the mistress to send you across the mares on the night like this. It's not as if the doctor could do anything for Miss Margaret if you do bring him. Every child is like that once in a while. He'll only say, put her to bed, and she's there already. I don't see what there is to be afraid of, Cook, said Miss Craig as she lays her boots,

unless you believe in ghosts. I'm not so sure about that. I know I don't like sleeping in a bed where the sheets are too short for you to pull them over your head. But don't you be frightened, miss. It's my belief that their bark is worse than their bite. But though Miss Craig amused herself for some minutes by trying to imagine the bark of a ghost, a thing altogether different from the classical ghostly bark, she didn't feel entirely at ease.

She was naturally nervous, and living as she did in the hinterland of the servants' hall, she'd heard vague details of true stories that were only myths in the drawing room. The very name of Redmond's Cross sent a shiver through her. It must have been the place where that horrid murder was committed. She'd forgotten the tale, though. She remembered the name.

Her first disaster came soon enough. Pontiff, who was naturally slow-witted, took more than five minutes to find out that it was only the governess he was escorting. But once the discovery had been made, he promptly turned tail, paying not the slightest heed to Miss Craig's feeble whittle. And then, to add to her discomfort, the rain came, not in heavy drops, but driving in sheets of thin spray that blotted out what few landmarks there were upon the moor. They were very kind at Tebitt's farm.

The doctor had gone back to Liverpool the day before, but Mrs. Tebitt gave her hot milk and turf cakes, and it ordered her reluctant son to show Miss Craig a shorter path onto the moor, one that avoided the large wood. He was a monosyllabic youth, but his presence was cheering, and she felt the night doubly black when he left her at the last gate. She trudged on wearily. Her thoughts had already gone back to the almost exhausted theme of the bark of ghosts. When she heard steps on the road behind her, that were at least material. Next minute the figure of a man appeared. Miss Craig was relieved to see that the stranger was a clergyman.

He raised his hat. I believe we're both going in the same direction, he said. Perhaps I may have the pleasure of escorting you. She thanked him. It is a rather weird at night. She went on, and what with all the tales of ghosts and bogies that one hears from the country people I fainted by being half afraid myself.

Oh, I can understand your nervousness, he said, especially on a night like this. I used to at one time feel the same, for my work often meant lonely walks across the moat of farms which are only reached by rough tracks, difficult enough to find even in the daytime. And you never saw anything to frighten you, nothing immaterial, I mean.

I can't really say that I did, but I had an experience illicit. seven years ago which served is a turning point in my life. Since you seem to be now in much the same state of mind I was then, I'll tell you. The time of year was late September. I'd been over to Westendale to see an old woman who was dying, and then, just as I was about to start on my way home, work came to me of another of my parishioners who'd been suddenly taken ill only that morning.

It was after seven when at last I started. A farmer saw me on the way. turning back when I reached the moor road. The sunset the previous evening had been one of the most lovely I ever remember seeing. The whole vault of heaven had been scattered with flakes of white cloud, tipped with rosy pink like the strewn petals of a full-blown rose. But that night, all was changed. The sky was an absolutely dull slate colour,

except in one corner of the west where a thin rift showed the last, saffron tint of the sullen sunset. As I walked, stiff and footsore, my spirit sank. It must have been the marked contrast between the two evenings, the one so lovely, so full of promise. The corn was still out in the field spoiling for fine weather, and the other, so gloomy, so sad with all the dead weight of autumn and winter days to come. And then added to this sense of heavy depression came another different feeling, which I surprised myself by recognizing as fear. I do not know why I was afraid.

The moors lay on either side of me, unbroken except for a straggling line of turf shooting butts that stood within a stone's throw of the road. The only sound I heard for the last half hour was the cry of the startled grouse, go back, go back, go back. But yet the feeling of fear was there, affecting a low centre of my brain through some little use physical channel.

I buttoned my coat closer and tried to divert my thoughts by thinking of next Sunday sermon. I had chosen to preach on Job, as much in the old-fashioned notion of the book, apart from all the subtleties of the higher criticism, that appeals to country people, the loss of herds and crops, the breakup of the family. I would not have dared to speak had not I too been a farmer. My own Glebe land had been flooded three weeks before, and I suppose I stood to lose as much as any man in the parish. As I walked along the road, repeating to myself the first chapter of the book, I stopped at the 12th verse. And the Lord said unto Satan, behold, all that he hath is in thy power.

Now the thought of the bad harvest, and that is an awful thought in these valleys, vanished. I seemed to gaze into an ocean of infinite darkness. Now I'd often used, with the Sunday glibness of the tired priest, whose duty it is to preach three sermons in one day, the old simile of the chess balls. God and the devil were the players, and we were helping one side or the other. But until that night, I'd not thought of the possibility

of my being only a pawn in the game, that God might throw away, that the game might be won, to reach the place where we are now. I remember it by that rough stone water trough when a man suddenly jumped out from the roadside. He'd been seated on a heap of broken road metal. Ah, which way are you going, Governor? he said. I knew from the way he spoke that the man was a stranger.

There are many at this time of the year who come from the south, trampling northwards with the ripening corn. I told him my destination. We all go along together. together, he replied. It was too dark to see much of the man's face, but what little I made out was coarse and brutal. Then he began the half-menacing wine I know so well. He trampled miles that day. He'd had no food since breakfast, and that was only a crust. Oh, give us a copper, he said. It's only for a night's lodging. He was whittling away with a big glass knife

at an ash stake he'd taken from some hedge. The clergyman broke off. Oh, are those the lights of your house? he said. We're nearer than I expected, but I shall have time to finish my story. I think I will, for you can run home in a couple of minutes, and I don't want you to be frightened when you're out on the Moors again. So, as the man talked, he seemed to have stepped out of the very background of my thoughts. his sordid tale with the sad lies that hid a far sadder truth.

He asked me the time. It was five minutes to nine. As I replaced my watch, I glanced at his face. His teeth were clenched, and there was something in the gleam of his eyes that told me at once his purpose. Have you ever known how long a second is? For a third of a second I stood there facing him, filled with an overwhelming pity for myself and him, and then, without a word of warning, he was upon me.

I felt nothing. A flash of lightning ran down my spine. I heard the dull crash of the ash stake, and then a very gentle patter like the sound of a far distant stream. For a minute I lay in perfect happiness, watching the lights of the house as they increased in number until the whole heaven. shone with twinkling lamps. I could not have had a more painless death. Miss Craig looked up. The man was gone. She was alone on the mall.

She ran to the house, her teeth chattering, ran to the solid shadow that crossed and recrossed the kitchen blind. She entered the hall. The clock on the stairs struck the hour. It was nine o'clock. Now, as a doctor of the weird and macabre, I'm sure you can understand why I value my own privacy, and I like to remain incognito as much as possible. And that's why I value internet privacy just as much.

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and you can now get an extra three-month-three or one-year package. That's E-X-P-R-E-S-V-N-D-N-com slash creep. One more time, expressvvpn.com slash creep. So you and your secrets remain protected. A reminder in our first tale to be careful where you walk, and at what time you go out walking. Never walk across the moors at night. Now on to our second tale of terror.

The Well by W.W. Jacobs. Two men stood in the billiard room of an old country house, talking. Play, which had been of a half-hearted nature, was over, and they sat down at the open window, looking out over the park, stretching away beneath them, conversing idly. Your time's nearly up, Jim, said one at length. This time six weeks you'll be yawning out of the honeymoon, and cursing the man, a woman, I mean, who invented them. Jim Benson stretched his long limbs in the chair and grunted in dissent. I've never understood it, continued Wilfrid Carr, yawning.

It's not in my line at all. I never had money enough for my own wants, let alone for two. Perhaps if I were as rich as you or Croesus, I might regard it differently. There was sufficient meaning in the latter part of the remark for his cousin to forbear to reply to it. He continued to gaze out of the window and to smoke slowly. Not being as rich as Croesus or you, resumed Carr, regarding him from beneath lowered lids. I paddle my own canoe down the stream of time, and tying it to my friend's doorposts, go in to eat their dinners.

Quite Venetian, said Gem Benson, still looking out of the window. It's not a bad thing for you, Wilfrid, that you have the doorposts and dinners, and friends. Carr grunted in his turn. Seriously, though, Jim, he said slowly, you're a lucky fellow, a very lucky fellow.

If there's a better girl above ground than Olive, I should like to see her. Yes, said the other quietly. Well, she's an exceptional girl, continued Carr, staring out of the window. She's so good and gentle.

She thinks you are a of all the virtues. He laughed frankly and joyously, but the other man did not join him. A strong sense of right and wrong, though, continued Carr musingly. Do you know, I believe that if she found out what you were not, not what? Demanded Benson, turning upon him fiercely. Not what?

Everything that you are, returned his cousin with a grin that belied his words, well, I believe she'd drop you. Talk about something else, said Benson slowly. Your pleasantries are not always in the best taste. Wolford Carr rose and, taking a queue from the rack, bent over the board and practiced one or two favorite shots. Ah, the only other subjects I can talk about just at present is my own financial affairs, he said slowly, as he walked around the table. Talk about something else, Benson said again, bluntly. Oh, and the two things are connected, said Carr, dropping his cue he half sat on the table and eyed his cousin. There was a long silence.

Benson pitched the end of his cigar out of the window, and leaning back closed his eyes. Do you, um, follow me? inquired car at length. Benson opened his eyes and nodded at the window. Do you want to follow my cigar? He demanded. Oh, I should prefer to depart by the usual way for your sake. Return the other, unabashed.

If I left by the window, all sorts of questions would be asked, and you know how talkative a chap I am. Oh, so long as you don't talk about my affairs, returned the other, restraining himself by an obvious effort. You can talk yourself hoarse. I'm in a mess, said Carr slowly. A devil of a mess. If I don't race fifteen hundred by this day, fortnight, I may be getting my board and lodging free. Would that be any change? Question Benson.

The, um, quality would, retorted the other. The address would also not be good. seriously jem will you let me have the fifteen hundred no said the other simply car went white it's to save me from ruin he said thickly i've helped you till i'm tired said benson turning and regarding him and it is all to no good if you've got into a mess get out of it you should not be so fond of giving all autographs away. Yeah, it's foolish, I admit, said Carr deliberately. I won't do so anymore. Oh, by the way, I've got some to sell. You needn't sneer, they're not my own. Who's are they? inquired the other.

Oh, yours. Benson got up from his chair and crossed over to him. What is this? he asked quietly. Blackmail. Call it what you're not. like said car i've got some letters for sale price fifteen hundred and i know a man who would buy them at that price for the mere chance of getting olive from you i'll give you first offer if you've got any letters bearing my signature you'll be good enough to give them to me said benson very slowly

they're mine said car lightly given to me by the lady you wrote them to oh I must say they are not all in the best possible taste. His cousin reached forward suddenly and, catching him by the collar of his coat, pinned him down on the table. Give me those letters, he breathed, sticking his face close to cars. They're not here, said Carr, struggling. I'm not a fool. Let me go or I'll raise the price. The other man raised him from the table in his powerful hands, apparently with the intention. of dashing his head against it.

Then suddenly, his hold relaxed as an astonished-looking maid-servant entered the room with letters. Carr sat up hastily. That's how it was done, said Benson, for the girl's benefit as he took the letters. Oh, I don't wonder at the other man making him pay for it, then, said Carl, blandly. You will give me those letters? Asked Benson, suggestively, is... the girl left the room.

Um, at the price I mentioned, yes, said Carr, but so sure as I am a living man, if you lay your clumsy hands on me again, I'll double it. Now, I'll leave you for a time while you think it over. He took his cigar from the box, and, lighting it carefully, quitted the room. His cousin waited until the door had closed behind him, and then, turning to the window, sat there in a fit of fury, as silent as it was terrible. The air was fresh and sweet from the park, heavy with the scent of new mown grass. The fragrance of a cigar was now added to it, and, glancing out, he saw his cousin pacing slowly by.

He rose and went to the door, and then, apparently altering his mind, he returned to the window and watched the figure of his cousin as it moved slowly away into the moonlight. Then he rose again, and, for a long time, the room was a moment. empty. It was empty when Mrs. Benson came in sometime later to say good-night to her son on her way to bed. She walked slowly round the table and, pausing at the window, gaze from it in idle thought, until she saw the figure of her son advancing rapid strides toward the house. He looked up at the window. Good night, said she. Good night, said Benson in a deep voice. Where is Wilfred? "'Oh, um, he's gone,' said Benson.

"'Gone?' "'We had a few words. "'He was wanting money again, and I gave him a peace of my mind. "'I don't think we shall see him again.' "'Poor Wilfred,' sighed Mrs. Benson. "'He's always in trouble as some sort. "'I hope that you weren't too hard upon him.' "'No more than he deserved,' said her son sternly.

"'Good night.' "'The well, which had long as well, which had long as well, ago fallen into disuse, was almost hidden by the thick tangle of undergrowth which ran riot at the corner of the old park. It was partly covered by the shrunken half of a lid, above which a rusty windless creaked in company with the music of the pines when the wind blew strongly. The full light of the sun never reached it, and the ground surrounding it was moist and green when other parts of the park were gaping with the heat. Two people walking slowly around the park in the frequent stillness of a summer evening strayed in the direction of the well.

Oh, no use going through this wilderness on it, said Benson, pausing on the outskirts of the pines and eyeing with some disfavor the gloom beyond. Best part of the park, said the girl briskly. Oh, you know it's my favourite spot. I know you're very fond of sitting on the coping, said the man slowly, and I wish you wouldn't. one day you'll lean back too far and fall in. And then make the acquaintance of truth, said Olive lightly. Come along.

She ran from him and was lost in the shadow of the pines, the bracken crackling beneath her as her feet ran across it. Her companion follows slowly, and emerging from the gloom, saw her poised daintly on the edge of the well, with her feet hidden in the rank grass and nettles which surrounded it. She motioned her companion to take a seat by her side And smile softly

As she felt a strong arm passed around her waist Oh, I like this place She said she, breaking a long silence It is so dismal, so uncanny Do you know I wouldn't dare sit there alone, Gem? I should imagine all sorts of dreadful things Were hidden beneath those bushes and trees Waiting to spring out on me

"'Oh!' "'Well, you'd better let me take you in,' said her companion tenderly. "'The well isn't always wholesome, especially in the hot weather. "'Let's make a move.' The girl gave an obstinate little shake, and settled herself more securely on her seat. "'I'll smoke your cigar in peace,' she said quietly. "'I'm settled here for a quiet talk.

"'Oh, sir, anything but heard of Wilfred yet?' "'Ah, nothing. "'Oh, quite a dramatic disappearance, isn't it?' she continued. "'Another scrape, I suppose, and another letter for you in the same old strain. "'Oh, dear, Gem, help me out.' "'Gem Benson blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air, "'and holding his cigar between his teeth, brushed away the ash from his coat sleeves. "'I wonder what you would have done without you,' said the girl,

pressing his arm affectionately. Gone under long ago, I suppose. When we're married, I will presume upon the relationship to lecture him. He is very wild, but he has his good point, to the poor fellow. I never saw them, said Benson, with startling bitterness. God knows I never saw them. Well, he's nobody's enemy but his own, said the girl, startled by his outburst. You don't know much about him.

said the other sharply. He was not above blackmail, not above ruining the life of a friend to do himself a benefit. A loafer, a cur and a liar. The girl looked at him soberly but timidly and took his arm without a word, and they both sat silent

while evening deepened into night in the beams of the moon, filtering through the branches, surrounded them with a silver network. Her head sank upon his shoulder, till suddenly, with a sharp cry, she sprang to her feet. What was that? She cried breathlessly.

What was what? Demanded Benson, springing up and clutching her fast by the arm. She caught her breath and tried to laugh. You're hurting me, Jeb! His hold relaxed. What is the matter? He asked gently. What was it that startled you?

I was startled. She said slowly, putting her hands on his shoulder. I suppose the words I use just now are ringing in my ears, but I fancied that someone behind us whispered, Jim, help me out. Fancy, repeated Benson, and his voice shook. But these fancies are not good for you. You are frightened at the dark and the gloom of these trees.

Let me take you back to the house. No, I'm not frightened. said the girl, reseating herself, "'I should never be really frightened of anything when you were with me, Gem. "'I'm surprised myself had been so silly.' "'The man made no reply but stood, "'a strong, dark figure, a yard or two from the well, "'as though waiting for her to join him.

"'Come and sit down, sir,' cried Olive, "'patting the brickwork with a small white hand. "'One would think you didn't like your company.' He obeyed slowly and took a seat by her side, drawing so hard at his cigar that the light of it shone upon his fare at every breath. He passed his arm, firm and rigid steel behind her, with his hand resting on the brickwork beyond. Are you warm enough? he asked tenderly, and she made a little movement. Pretty fair, she shivered. When oughtn't to be cold at this time of year, but there's a cold damp air comes up from that well.

As she spoke, a faint splash sounded from the depths below, and for the second time that evening she sprang from the well with a little cry of dismay. What is it now? he asked in a fearful voice. He stood by her side and gazed at the well, as though half expecting to see the cause of her alarm emerge from it. Oh, my bracelet, she cried in distress. Look at my poor mother's bracelet. I've dropped it down the well. "'Your bracelet,' repeated Benson, Dahlty.

"'Your bracelet? The diamond one.' "'Oh, that was my mother's,' said Olive. "'Oh, we can't get it back, surely. "'Look, we must have the water drained off.' "'Your bracelet,' repeated Benson stupidly. "'Jim,' said the girl in terrified tones, "'deer Jim, what's the matter?' For the man she loved was standing regarding her with horror.

The moon which touched it was not responsible for all the whiteness of the distorted face, and she shrank back in fear to the edge of the well. He saw her fear, and, by a mighty effort, regained his composure and took her hand. Poor little girl, he murmured. You frightened me. I was not looking when you cried, and I thought that you were slipping from my arms. Down! down down his voice broke and the girl throwing herself into his arms clung to him convulsively hither said benson fondly don't cry don't cry

tomorrow said olive half laughing half crying we'll all come round the well with hook and line and fish for it it'll be quite a new sport no we must try some other way said benson you shall have it back. How? asked the girl. You shall see, said Benson. Tomorrow morning, at the latest, you shall have it back. Until then, promise me that you will not mention your loss to anyone. Promise? I promise, said Olive, wonderingly. But why not? Well, it is of great value, for one thing. And, but, well, there are many reasons. For one thing, for one thing it is my duty to get it for you. Wouldn't you like to jump down for it? she asked mischievously. Listen.

She stooped for a stone and dropped it down. Fancy being where that is now, she said, peering into the blackness. Fancy going round and round like a mouse in a pail, clutching at the slimy sides, with the water filling your mouth and looking up to the little patch of sky above. You'd better come in, said Benson very quietly. You're developing a taste for the morbid and horrible.

The girl turned and taking his arm, walked slowly in the direction of the house. Mrs. Benson, who was sitting in the porch, rose to receive them. You shouldn't have kept her out so long, she said, chidingly. Where have you been? Sitting on the well, said Olive, smiling, discussing our future. I don't believe that. "'the place is healthy,' said Mrs. Benson, emphatically. "'I really think it might be filled in, Jim.'

"'All right,' said her son slowly. "'Pity it wasn't filled in long ago.' He took the chair vacated by his mother as she entered the house with Olive, and with his hands hanging limply over the sides, sat in deep thought. After a time he rose, and going upstairs to a room which was set apart for sporting requisites, selected a sea fishing line and some hooks and stole softly downstairs again he walked swiftly across the park in the direction of the well turning before he entered the shadow of the trees to look back at the lighted windows of the house then having arranged his line he sat on the edge of the well and cautiously lowered it he sat with his lips compressed occasionally looking about him in a startled fashion as though he half expected to see something peering at him from the belt of trees. Time after time, he lowered his line until at length,

in pulling it up, he heard a little metallic tinkle against the side of the well. He held his breath then, and forgetting his fears drew the line in inch by inch, so as not to lose its precious burden. His pulse beat rapidly, and his eyes were bright. As the lion came slowly in, he saw the catch hanging to the hook,

and with a steady hand drew the last few feet in. And then he saw that, instead of the bracelet, he'd hooked a bunch of keys. With a faint cry, he shook them from the hook into the water below and stood breathing heavily. Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. He walked up and down a bit and stretched his great muscles. Then he came back to the well and resumed his task.

For an hour or more the last. line was lowered without result in his eagerness he forgot his fears and with eyes bent down the well fished slowly and carefully twice the hook became entangled in something and was with difficulty released it caught a third time and all his efforts failed to free it then he dropped the line down the well and with head bent walk back toward the house he went first to the stables at the rear and then retiring to his room for some time, he ceased restlessly up and down. And then, without removing his clothes, he flung himself upon the bed and fell into a troubled sleep. Long before anybody else was a stir, he arose and stole softly downstairs.

The sunlight was stealing in at every crevice and flashing in long streaks across the darkened rooms. The dining room into which he looked struck chill and cheerless in the dark yellow light which came through the lowered blinds. He remembered that it had been the same appearance when his father had laid dead in the house. Now, as then, everything seemed ghastly and unreal. The very chairs standing as their occupants had left them the night before

seemed to be indulging in some dark communication of ideas. Slowly and noiselessly, he opened the hall door and passed into the fragrant air beyond. The sun was shining on the drenched grass, and trees and slowly vanishing white mist rolled like smoke about the grounds. For a moment he stood, breathing deeply the sweet air of the morning, and then walked slowly in the direction of the stables. The rusty creaking of a pump handle and a spatter of water upon the red-tiled courtyard showed that someone else was a stir, and a few steps farther

he beheld a brawny, sandy-haired man, gasping wildly under severe, self-infliction at the pump. Everything ready, George, he asked quietly. Oh, yes, sir, said the man, straightening up suddenly and touching his forehead. Bob's just finishing the arrangements inside. It's a lovely morning for a dip. Oh, that water in the world must be just icy. I'll be as quick as you can, said Benson impatiently.

Aye, very good, sir, said George, burnishing his face harshly with a very small, towel which should have been hanging over the top of the pump. "'Oye, hurry up, Bob!' In answer to his summons, a man appeared at the door of the stable with a coil of stout rope over his arm and a large metal candlestick in his hand. "'Just to try the air, sir,' said George,

following his master's glance. A well gets rather foul sometimes, but if a candle can live down it, then a man can too.' His master nodded. and the man, hastily pulling up the neck of his shirt and thrusting his arms into his coat, followed him as he led the way slowly to the well. "'Beg pardon, sir,' said George, drawing up to his side.

"'But you are not looking over and above well this morning. If you let me go down, I'd enjoy it about.' "'No, no,' said Benson, preemptorily. "'You ain't fit to go down, sir,' persisted. his follower. I've never seen you look so before. Now, if... Mind your business, said his master curtly. Oh, George became silent, and the three walked with swinging strides through the long, wet grass to the well. Bob flung the rope on the ground, and at a sign from his master handed him the candlestick. Oh, here's the line for it, sir, said Bob, fumbling in his pockets.

Benson took it from him and slowly tied it to the candlestick, and he placed it on the edge of the well, striking a match, lit the candle and began to slowly lower it. "'Hold hard, sir,' said George quickly, laying his hand on his arm. "'You must tilt it or the string will burn through.' Even as he spoke, the string parted, and the candlestick fell into the water below.

Benson swore quietly. I'll soon get another, said George, starting up. Never mind. Look, the well's all right, said Benson. It won't take a moment, sir, said the other over his shoulder. Look, are you the master here, or am I? said Benson hoarsely. George came back slowly and glanced at his master's face, stopping the protest upon his tongue, and he stood by,

by watching him sulkily as he sat on the well and removed his outer garments. Both men watched him curiously as having completed his preparations, he stood grim and silent with his hands by his sides. Oh, I wish you'd let me go, sir, said George, plucking up courage to address him. You ain't fit to go. You've got a chill or something. I shouldn't wonder it's a typhoid. Oh, they've got it in the village bad. For a moment, Benson.

and looked at him angrily, and then his gaze softened. Not this time, George, he said quietly. He took the looped end of the rope and placed it under his arms, and sitting down through one leg over the side of the well. How are you going to go about it, sir? queried George, laying hold of the rope and signing to Bob to do the same. I'll call out when I reached the water, said Benson, then pay out three yards more quickly so that I can get to the bottom.

"'Aye, very good, sir,' answered Bo. Their master threw the other leg over the coping and sat motionless. His back was turned toward the men as he sat with head bent, looking down the shaft. He sat for so long that George became uneasy. "'All right, sir,' he inquired. "'Yes,' said Benson slowly. "'If I tug at the rope, George, pull up at once.' Right, lower away.

The rope passed steadily through their hands until a hollow cry from the darkness below and a faint splashing warned them that he'd reach the water. They gave him three yards more and stood with a relaxed grasp and strained ears, waiting. He's gone under, said Bob in a low voice. The other nodded and, moistening his huge palms, took a firm grip of the rope.

fully a minute passed and the men began to exchange uneasy glances and then a sudden tremendous jerk followed by a series of feebler ones nearly tore the rope from their grasp pull said george placing one foot on the side and hauling desperately pull pull he's stuck fast he's not coming pull in In response to their terrific exertions, the rope came slowly in, inch by inch, until at length of violent splashing was heard, and at the same moment a scream of unutterable horror came echoing up the shaft. "'What a weight he is!' panted Bob. "'He's stuck fast or something. "'Keep still, sir, for heaven's sake, keep still!'

The tort rope was being jerked violently by the struggles of the weight at the end of it. both men with grunts and sighs hauled in foot by foot all right sir cried george cheerfully he had one foot against the well and was pulling manfully the burden was nearing the top a long pull and a strong pull and the face of a dead man with mud in his eyes and nostrils came peering over the edge behind it was the guard the face of his master. But this he saw too late, for with a great cry he let go of his hold of the rope and stepped back. The suddenness over through his assistant, and the rope tore through his hands. And there was a frightful splash. Oh, you fool! stammered Bob, and ran to the well hopelessly. God, run! cried George. Run for another line! He bent over the coping and caught eagerly down

as his assistant sped back to the stable, shouting wildly. His voice re-echoed down the shaft, but all else was silence. Hey, Ontario, come on down to BetMGM Casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price is Right Fortune Pick. Don't miss out. Play exciting casino games based on the iconic game show. Only at BetMGM.

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There's something always just a little bit scary about a well, isn't there? Now time for our penultimate tale of the Macarvera. Old Garfield's hearts by Robert E. Howard. I was sitting on the porch when my grandfather hobbled out and sank down on his favorite chair with the cushioned seat, and began to stuff tobacco in his old corn-cob pipe. I thought you'd been going to the dance, he said. I'm waiting for Doc Blaine, I answered. I'm going over to Old Man Garfield's with him.

My grandfather sucked at his pipe a while before he spoke again. Old Jim Purdy bad, oh, Doc says he has a chance. He was taken care of him. Joe Braxton, against Garfield's wishes, but somebody had to stay with him. My grandfather sucked his pipe noisily. I watched the heat lightning playing away off up in the hills. And he said? You think old Jim's the biggest liar in this county, don't you?

He tells some pretty tall tales, I admitted. Some of the things he claimed he took part in must have happened before he was born. I came from Tennessee to Texas in 1870. My grandfather said abruptly. I saw this town of Lost Knob, grew up with nothing. It wasn't even a long hut store here when I came. But old Jim Garfield was here, living in the same place he lives now. Only that, it was a log cabin.

He don't look a day older now than he did with the first time I saw him. You never mentioned that before. I said in some surprise. I knew you put it down to an old man's morn and he answered. Old Jim was the first white man to settle in this country. He built his cabin a good fifty miles west of the frontier. God knows how he'd done it. These hills swarmed with Comanches back then.

I remember the first time I ever saw him. Even then everyone called him old Jim. Remember him telling me the same tales he told you how he was at the Battle of San Jacinto when he was a youngster. a youngster and how he'd rode with you and Cameron and Jack Hayes. Only I believe him and you don't. That was so long ago, I protested. The last Indian raid through this country was in 1874, said my grandfather, engrossed in his own reminiscences. I was in on that fight, so was old Jim. I saw him knock old yellowtail off his Mustang at 700 yards with a buffalo rifle.

But before that I was with him in a fight up near the head of Locus Creek. Band of Comanches came down Mesquitah, looting and burning, rode through the hills and started back up Locus Creek, and the scout of us were hot on their heels. We ran on to them just at sundown in Mesquite flat. Killed seven of them, and the rest skinned out through the brush on foot. The three of our boys were killed, and Jim Garfield got a thrust in the breast with a lance. It was an awful wound. He lay like a dead man,

and he seemed sure nobody could live after a wound like that. But an old Indian came out of the bush. When we aimed our guns at him, he made the peace sign and spoke to us in Spanish. I don't know why the boys didn't shoot him in his tracks, because our blood was heated with the fighting and killing, but something about him made us hold our fire. He said he wasn't a Comanche,

but was an old friend of Garfield. I wanted to help it. He was just to carry Jim into a clump of Mesquite, and leave him alone with him, and to this day, I don't know why we did, but we did. Oh, it was an awful time. The wounded moaning and calling for water. The staring corpse is strewn about the camp,

night coming on, and nowhere knowing that the Indians wouldn't return when dark fell. We make camp right there, because the horses were facted out, We watched all night, but the Comanches didn't come back. I don't know what went on out in the mesquite where Jim Garfield's body lay, because I never saw that strange Indian again. But during the night I kept hearing a weird moaning that wasn't made by the dying land, and an owl hooted from midnight till dawn. When at sunrise, Jim Garfield came walking out of the mesquite,

pale and haggard but alive, and already the wound in his breast had clen. and begun to heal. Since then, he's never mentioned that wound, nor that fight, a strange engine who came and went so mysteriously. He hasn't aged a bit. He looks now just like he did then, man of about fifty. In the silence that followed, a car began to purr down the road,

and twin shafts of light cut through the dust. That's Doc Blaine, I said. When I'll come back, I'll tell. how Garfield is. Doc Blaine was prompt with his predictions as we drove the three miles of post-oak-covered hills that lay between Lost Knob and the Garfield farm. I'll be surprised to see him alive, he said. Oh, smashed up like he is.

A man of his age ought to have more sense than to try and break a young horse. He doesn't look so old, I remarked. I'll be 50, my next birthday, answered Doc Blaine. I've known him all my life, and he must have been at least fifty the first time I ever saw him. His looks are deceiving. Old Garfield's dwelling place was reminiscent of the past. The boards of the low squat house had never known paint. Orchid fence and corrals were built of rails.

Old Jim lay on his rude bed, tended crudely but efficiently by the man Dot Blaine had hired over the old man's protests. As I looked at him, I was in pretty much. impressed anew by his evident vitality. His frame was stooped but unwhithered. His limbs rounded with springy muscles. In his corded neck and in his face, drawn though it was with suffering, was apparent an innate virility. His eyes, though, partly glazed with pain, burned with the same unquenchable element. "'He's been raving,' said Joe Brxton stolidly. "'First, why about in this country?' muttered old Jim, becoming intelligible. He'll's no white man ever set foot in before.

Ah, getting too old. I have to settle down. Can't move on like I used to. Settle down here. Good country before it filled up with cowmen and squatters. I wish you and Cameron could see this country. Where the Mexicans shot him, damn them. Bob Blaine shook his head.

He's all smashed up inside. He won't live till daylight. And Garfield unexpectedly lifted his head and looked at us with clear eyes. Wrong, Doc, he weased, his breath whistling with pain. I'll live. What's broken bones and twisted guts? Nothing. It's the heart that counts.

Long as the heart keeps pumping, a man can't die. My heart sound. Listen to it. Feel it. He groped painfully for Doc Blaine's wrist. dragged his hand to his bosom and held it there, staring up into the doctor's face with avid intensity. Regular dynamo, ain't it?

He gasped. Stronger than a gasoline engine. Blaine beckoned me. Lay your hand here, he said, placing my hand on the old man's bare breast. He does have a remarkable hard action. I noted in the light of the coal oil lamp, a great livid sky in the gorn arching breast.

Such a scar as might be made by a flint-headed spear. I lay my hand directly on this scar, and an exclamation escaped my lips. Under my old hand, Jim Garfield's heart pulsed, but its throb was like no other heart action I've ever observed. Its power was astounding. His ribs vibrated to its very throb. It felt more like the vibrating of a dynamo than the action of a human organ. I could feel its amazing vitality radiating from his breast,

stealing up into my hand and up my arm, until my own heart seemed to speed up in response. Oh, I can't die, old Jim gasped. Not as long as my heart's in my breast. Only a bullet through the brain can kill me. Even then I wouldn't be rightly dead, as long as my heart keeps beating in my breast. Yet it ain't rightly mine either.

It belongs to Ghostman. the Lepon chief. It was the heart of a god the Lippon's worship before the Comanches drove him out of their native hills. I knew ghost man down on the real ground. When I was with you and Cameron, I saved his life from the Mexicans once.

He tied the string of ghost Wampum between him and me, the Wampum no man but me and him can see a feel. He came when he knewed I needed him, and I fired upon the headwaters of Locus Creek when I got this scar. While I was as dead as a man can be. My heart was slashed in too, like the heart of a butchered beast did. All night Ghostman did magic, calling my Ghost Back from Spiritland.

I remember that fighter, little. It was dark and gray-like and I drifted through gray mists and heard the dead wailing past me in the mist. But Ghostman brought me back. He took out what was left of my mortal heart and put the heart of the God in my bosom. it's his and when I'm through with it, he'll come for it. Get me alive and strong for the lifetime of a man. Age can't touch me. What do I care if these fools around here call me an old liar? What I know, I know. But, he, and his fingers became claws, clamping fiercely on Doc Blaine's wrist. His old eyes, old yet strangely young, burned fierce as those of an eagle under his bushy brows.

If by some mischance, I should die, now or later, I promise me this. Go into my bosom and take out the heart ghostman led me so long ago. It's his. As long as it beats in my body, my spirit will be tied to that body. My head be crushed like an egg underfoot. A living thing in a rotten body. Promise? All right, I promise.

replied Doc Blaine to humour him, and old Jim Garfield sat back with a whistling sigh of relief. Well, he did not die that night, nor the next, nor the next. I well remember the next day because that was the day I had the fight with Jack Kirby. People will take a good deal from a bully rather than to spill blood. Because nobody had gone to the trouble of killing him, Kirby thought the whole countryside was afraid of it. He bought a steer from my father, and when my father went to collect for it, Kirby told him that he paid the money to me, which was a lie.

I went looking for Kirby and came upon him in a bootleg joint, boasting of his toughness and telling the crowd that he was going to beat me up and make me say that he paid me the money, and I had to stick it into my own pocket. When I heard him say that, I saw red, and ran in on him with a stopman's knife and cut him. him across the face and in the neck, side, breast and belly. The only thing that saved his life was the fact that the crowd pulled me off. There was a preliminary hearing, and I was indicted on a charge of assault. My trial was set for the following term of court. Oh, Kirby was as tough-fibered as a post-oak country bully ought to be, and he recovered, swearing vengeance, for he was vain of his looks, though God knows why, and I had permanently impaired them. While Jack Kirby was recovering, old man Garfield recovered too, to the amazement of everybody,

especially Dodd Blaine. I well remember the night Doc Blaine took me again out to old Jim Garfield's farm. I was in Shifty Corland's joint, trying to drink enough of the slop he caught beer to get a kick out of it, when Doc Blaine came in and persuaded me to go with him. As we drove along the winding old road in Doc's car, by us. Why are you so insistent I go with you on this particular night? This isn't a professional call, is it? No, he said. You couldn't kill old Jim with a post-oak mall.

He's completely recovered from injuries that ought to have killed an ox. To tell you the truth, Jack Kirby is in Lasnob. Swering he'll shoot you on sight. Oh, for God's sake, I exclaimed angrily. Now everybody will think I left town because I was afraid of him. Turn around and take me back, damn it. Be reasonable, said Doc. Everybody knows you're not afraid of Kirby.

Nobody's afraid of him now. His bluff's broken. That's why he's so wild against you. But you can't afford to have any more trouble with him now. The trial's only a short time off. I laughed and said, well, if he's looking for me hard enough, you can find me as easily at old Garfields as in town. your Shifty call and heard you say where you were going.

Shifty's hated me ever since I skinned him in that horse swap last fall. He'll tell Kirby where I went. Never thought of that, said Doc Lane, worried. Forget it, I advised. Kirby hasn't got guts enough to do anything but blow. But I was mistaken. Punctuary bully's vanity and you touch is one vital spot. Our old Jim had not gone to bed when we got there.

He was sitting in the room opening on to his sagging porch, the room which was at once living room and bedroom, smoking his old cob pipe and trying to read a newspaper by the light of his coal oil lamp. All the windows and doors were wide open for the coolness, and the insects which swarmed in and fluttered around the lamp didn't seem to bother. We sat down and discussed the weather, which isn't so insane as why. One might suppose, in a country where men's livelihood depends on sun and rain, and is at the

mercy of wind and drought. The talk drifted into other kindred channels, and after some time, Doc Blame bluntly spoke of something that hung in his mind. "'Jim,' he said, "'at night I thought you were dying. You bowed a lot of stuff about your heart, and an Indian who lent you his. How much of that was delirium?' Nandah, said Garfield, putting at his point.

It was gospel truth. Ghostman, the life and priest of the gods of night, replaced my dead, torn heart with one from something he worshipped. I ain't sure myself just what something is. Well, something from way back, a long way off, he said. But being a god, he can do without his heart for a while. But when I die, if I ever get my head smashed so my consciousness is destroyed, the heart must be given back to Ghost Man.

You mean you were in earnest about cutting out your heart? demanded Doglane. Oh, it has to be, answered Old Garfield. A living thing and a dead thing is opposed to nature. That's what Ghostman says. The devil was Ghostman. I told you, I wish doctor of the Leibons, who dwelt in this country before the Comanches came down

from the Stake Plains and drove himself, across the Rio Grande. I was a friend to him, reckon a ghost man is the only one left alive. Alive? Now? I don't know, confessed old Jim. I don't know whether he's alive or dead. I don't know whether he was alive when he came to me after the fight on Locus Creek, or even if he was alive when I knowed him in the southern country. Alive as we understand life, I mean. What balderdash is this? Do you matter? did Doc Blaine uneasily, and I felt a slight stirring in my hair. Outside was stillness and the

stars, and the black shadows of the post-oak woods. The lambed cast old Garfield's shadow grotesquely on the wall, so it didn't at all resemble that of a human, and his words were strange as words heard in a nightmare. I know what you wouldn't understand, said old Jim. I don't understand I am herself, and I ain't got the words to explain them things I feel and know without understanding. The Lappans were kin to the Apaches, and the Apaches learned curious things from the Pueblos. Ghostman was, that's all I can't say. Alive or dead, I don't know, but he was. Once more, he is.

Is it you or me that's crazy? Asked Doleyn. Well, said old Jim, I'll tell you this much. Ghostman, you Coronado. Crazy as a loom, murmured Doc Blaine. Then he lifted his head. What's that?

Horse turning in from the road, I said. Sounds like it stopped. I stepped at the door like a fool and stood etched in the light behind me. I got a glimpse of a shadowy bulk I knew to be a man on a horse. then Doc Blaine yelled Look out and threw himself against me

knocking us both sprawling At the same instant I heard the smashing report of a rifle An old Garfield grunted And fell heavily Jack Kirby screamed Dog Blaine He's killed him

I scrambled up hearing the clatter of retreating Hoos Snatched old Jim's shotgun from the wall Rush recklessly out onto the sagging porch And let go both barrels at the fleeing shape, dim in the star. The charge was too light to kill at that range, but the birdshot stung the horse and maddened him.

He swerved, crashed headlong through a rail fence, and charged across the orchard, and a peach-tree limb knocked his rider out of the saddle. He never moved after he hit the ground. I ran out there and looked down at him. It was Jack Kirby right enough, and his neck was broken like a rotten brown. I let him lie and ran back to the house.

Doc Blaine had stretched old Garfield out on a bench he dragged in from the porch. Dog's face was whiter than I'd ever seen it. Old Jim was a ghastly sight. He'd been shot with an old-fashioned 45-70, and at that range the heavy ball had literally torn off the top of his head. His features were masked with blood and brains. He'd been directly behind me, poor man. old devil, and he'd stop the slug meant for me.

Dot Blaine was trembling, although he was anything but a stranger to such signs. Would you pronounce him dead? he asked. That's for you to say, he answered. But even a fool could tell that he is dead. He is dead, said Doc Blaine in a strained, unnatural voice. Rigamoris is already setting in, but I feel his heart. I did and I cried out. The flesh was already cold and clammy, but beneath it, that mysterious heart still hammered away steadily, like a dynamo in a deserted house.

No blood coursed through those veins, and yet the heart pounded, pounded and pounded, like the pulse of eternity. A living thing, in a dead thing, whispered Dot Blaine, cold sweat on his face. This is opposed to nature. I'm going to keep the promise I made in I'll assume full responsibility. This is too monstrous to ignore. Our implements were a butcher knife and a hacksaw. Outside only the still stars looked down on the black post-oak shadows and the dead man that lay in the orchard.

Inside, the old lamp flickered, making strange shadows move and shiver and cringe in the corners, and glistened on the blood on the floor, and the red dabbled figure on the bench. The only sound inside was the crunch of the saw edge on bone. Outside an owl began to hoot weirdly. Doc Blaine thrust a red-stained hand into the aperture he made and drew out a red, pulsing object that caught the lamplight. With a choke cry he recoiled,

and the thing slipped from his fingers and fell on the table. and I too cried out involuntarily, for it did not fall with a soft, meaty thud as a piece of flesh should fall, it thumped hard on the table. Impelred by an irresistible urge, I bent and gingerly picked up old Garfield's heart. The feel of it was brittle, unyielding, like steel or stone, but smoother than either.

In size and shape it was a duplicate of a human heart, but it was slick and smooth and its crimson surface reflected the lamplight like a jewel more lambent than any ruby and in my hand it still throbbed mightily sending vibratory radations of energy at my arm

until my own heart seemed swelling and bursting in response it was cosmic power beyond my comprehension concentrated into the likeness of a human heart the thought came to me that here was a dynamo

of life, the nearest approach to immortality that's possible for the destructible human body, the materialization of the cosmic secret, more wonderful than the fabulous fountains sought for by Ponce de Leon. My soul was drawn into that untirestral gleam, and I suddenly wished passionately that it hammered and thunded in my own bosom in place of my paltry heart of tissue and muscle. Doc Blaine ejaculated incoherently. I wheeled. The north of the north of the The noise of his coming had been no greater than the whispering of a night wind through the corn. There in the doorway he stood, tall, dark, inscrutable. An Indian warrior in the paint, war bonnets, breech-glout and moccasins of an elder age.

His dark eyes burn like fires gleaming deep under fathomless black lakes. Silently he extended his hand, and I dropped Jim Garfield's heart into it. And then, without a word, he turned and stalked into the night. But when Dot Blaine and I rushed out into the yard an instant later, there was no sign of any human being. He'd vanished like a phantom of the night, and only something that looked like an owl was flying, dwindling from sight into the rising moon.

And now, sadly, it's time to round off our tales of terror with the abominations of Yondo by Clark Kaston Smith. The sand of the desert of Yondo is not as the sand of other deserts, where Yondo lies nearest of all to the world's rim, and strange winds blowing from a pit no astronomer may hope to fathom have sown its ruinous fields with the grey dust of corroding planets, the black ashes of extinguished suns. The dark, all-black mountains which rise from its wrinkled and pitted plain,

are not all its own, the sum of fallen asteroids half buried in that abysmal sand. Things have crept in from nether space, whose incursion is forbid by the gods of all proper and well-ordered lands, but there are no such gods in yonder, where live the hoary genii of stars abolished and decrepit demons left homeless by the destruction of antiquated hells. It was noon of a vernal day when I came forth from that interminable cactus forest in which the inquisitors of Ong had left me, and saw at my feet the grey beginnings

of Yondo. I repeat it was noon on a vernal day, but in that fantastic wood I'd found no token or memory of a spring, and the swollen, fulvus dying and half-rotten growths through which I'd pushed my way were like no other cacti, but rather bore shapes of abominations skisks to be described. The very air was heavy with stagnant odors of decay, and leprous lichens mottled the black soil and russet vegetation with increasing frequency. Pale green vipers lifted their heads from prostrate cactus bowls

and watched me with eyes of bright ochre that had no lids or pupils. These things had disquieted me for hours past, and I did not like the monstrous fungi with hewless stems and nodding heads of poisonous mowth, which grew from the sudden lips of fetid tons, and the sinister ripples spreading and fading on the yellow water that my approach were not reassuring to one whose nerves were still taught from unmentionable tortures. Then, when even the blotched and sickly cacti became more sparse and stunted, and reels of ashen sand crept in among them, I began to suspect how great was the hatred my heresy had aroused in the priests of Ong, and to guess the

ultimate malignancy of their vengeance. We will not detail the indiscretions which had led me, a careless stranger from far off lands, into the power of those dreadful magicians and mysterious arcs who serve the lion-headed Ong. These indiscretions and the particulars of my arrest are painful to remember. And least of all do I like to remember the racks of dragon guts strewn with pound and adamant, on which men are stretched naked, or that unlit room with six-inch windows. near the sill, their bloated corpseworms crawled in by the hundreds from a neighbouring

catacomb. Sufficient to say that, after expending the resources of their frightful fantasy, my inquisitors had borne me blindfolded on Camelback for incommutable hours, to leave me at morning twilight in that sinister forest. I was free, they told me, to go whither I would, and in token of the clemency of Ang, they gave me a loaf of coarse bread. and a leavened bottom of rank water by way of provision. It was of noon that same day that I came to the desert of Yondo. So far I had not thought of turning back, for all the horror of those rotting cactiol, the evil things that dwelt among them.

But now I paused, knowing the abominable legend of the land to which I come, for Yondo is a place where few have ventured wittingly and of their own accord. You still have returned, babbling of unknown horrors and strange treasure, and the lifelong palsy which shakes their withered limbs, together with the mag gleam in their startling eyes, beneath widened brows and lashes is not an incentive for others to follow. So it was that I hesitated on the verge of those ashen sands, and felt the tremor of a new fear in my wrenched vitals. It was dreadful to go on, and dreadful to go back, for I felt sure that I was sure that

that the priests had made provision against the latter contingency, so after a little while I went forward, singing at each step in loathly softness, and followed by certain long-legged insects that I had met among the cat-tie. These insects were the colour of a weak-old corpse, and were as large as tarantulas, but when I turned and trod upon the foremost, a fit extent arose that was more nauseous even than their colour. So, for the last, for the little bit of the same as I was, the noncii ignored them as much as possible. Indeed, such things were minor horrors in my predicament. Before me, under a huge sun of sickly scarlet, yonder reached interminable as the land of a hashy stream against the black heavens. Far off on the utmost rim were those orb-like mountains of which

I had been told. But in between were awful blanks of grey desolation and low treeless hills like the backs of half-buried monsters. Struggling on, I saw great pits where meteors had sunk from sight and diverse-coloured jewels that I could not name glared or glistened from the dust. There were fallen cypresses that rotted by crumbling mausoleums, on whose like and blooded marble fat chameleons crept with royal pearls in their mouths. Hidden by the low ridges were cities of which no stellar remained unbroken. immense and immemorial cities lapsing shard by shard, atom by atom, to feed infinities of desolation.

I dragged my torture weakened limbs over vast rubbish-sheaps that had once been mighty temples, and fallen gods frowned in rotting passamite, or leered in riven porphyry at my feet. Over all was an evil silence, broken only by the satanic laughter of hyenas, and the rustling of adders in thickets of dead thorn or antique gardens given to the perishing nettle and fumatory. Topping one of the many mound-like ridges, I saw the waters of a weird lake, unfathomably dark and green as malchite, and set with bars of profligent salt. These waters lay far beneath me in a cup-like hollow, but almost at my feet on the wave-worn slopes were heaps of that ancient salt,

and I knew that the lake was only the bitter and ebbing dregs of some former sea. Claring down, I came to the dark waters and began to lave my hands, but there was a sharp and corrosive sting in that immemorial brine, and I desisted quickly, preferring the desert dust that had wrapped me about like a slow shroud. Here I decided to rest for a while, and hunger forced me to consume part of the meagre and mocking fare with which I had been provided by the priests. It was my intention to push on if my strength would allow

and reach the lands that lie to the north of Yondo. These lands are desolate indeed, but their desolation is of a more usual than that of Yonder. And certain tribes of nomads have been known to visit them occasionally. If fortune favoured me, I might fall in with one of these tribes. The scant fair revived me, and for the first time in weeks of which I'd lost all reckoning,

heard the whisper of a faint hope. A corpse-coloured insects have long since ceased to follow me, and so far, despite the eerieness of the sepulchral silence and the mounded dust of timeless ruin, I'd meant nothing half so horrible as those insects. I began to think that the terrors of yonder

were somewhat exaggerated. It was then that I heard a diabolic chuckle on the hillside above me. The sound began with a sharp abruptness that startled me beyond all reason, and continued endlessly, never varying its single note, like the mirth of an idiotic demon. I turned and saw the mouth of a dark cave, fanged with green stalactites, which I had not perceived before. The sound appeared to come from within this cave.

With a fearful intentness, I stared at the black hole. The chuckle grew louder, but for a while I could see nothing. At last I caught a whitish-grateful. glimmer in the darkness. Then with all the rapidity of nightmare, a monstrous thing emerged. It had a pale, hairless, egg-shaped body, large as that of a gravid she-gote, and this body was mounted on nine, long, wavering legs with many flanges, like the legs of some enormous spider. The creature ran past me to the water's edge, and I saw that there were no eyes in its oddly sloping face. The two knife-like ears rose high above its head, and a thin, wrinkled snout hung down

across its mouth, whose flabby lips, parted in that eternal chuckle, revealed rows of bats' tea. It drank acidly of the bitter lake. Then, with thirst satisfied, it turned and seemed to sense my presence, for the wrinkled snout rose and pointed toward me, sniffing audibly. Whether the creature would have fled or whether it meant to attack me, I do not know, for I could bear the sight no longer, but ran with trembling limbs amid the massive boulders and great bars of salt along the lakeshore. Utterly breathless, I stopped at last, and saw that I was not pursued. I sat down, still trembling in the shadow of a boulder.

But I was to find little respite, for now began the second of those bizarre adventures which forced me to believe all the mad legends I'd heard. While startling even that diabolic chuckle, was a scream that rose at my very elbow from the salt compounded sand, the scream of a woman possessed by some atrocious agony, all helpless in the grip of devil. Turning, I beheld a veritable Venus, naked in a white perfection that could fear no scrutiny,

but immersed to her navel in the sand. Her terror-widened eyes implored me, and her lotus hands reached out with beseeching gesture. I sprang to her side and touched a marble statue, whose carved lips were drooped in some enigmatic dream of dead cycles, and whose hands were buried with the lost loveliness of hips and thighs. Again I fled, shaken with a new fear, and again I heard the scream of a woman's agony. But this time I did not turn to see the impression. imploring eyes and hands. Of the long slope to the north of that accursed lake, stumbling over boulders of basinite and

ledges that were sharp with verdigris covered metals, floundering in pits of salt, on terraces wrought by the receding tide in ancient eons. I fled as a man flies from dream to baleful dream of some cocker-demonical night. But whilst there was a cold whisper in my ear which had not come from the wind of my flight. Looking back, as I reached one of the upper terrace, I perceived a singular shadow that ran pace by pace with my own. The shadow was not the shadow of man or ape nor any beast. The head was too grotesquely elongated, the squat body too gibbous, and I wasn't able to determine whether the shadow possess five legs or what appeared to be the fifth was merely a tail.

Terror lent me new strength, and I'd reach the hilltop when I dared to look back again. But still, the fantastic shadow kept pace by pace with mine, and now I caught a curious and utterly sickening odour, and was found as the odor of bats who've hung in a charnel house amid the mould of corruption. I ran for leagues, while the red sun slanted above the asteroidial mountains to the west, and the weird shadow lengthened with mine, but always kept. at the same distance behind me. An hour before sunset I came to a small circle of pillars that rose miraculously unbroken

amid ruins that were like a vast pile of pod shirts. As I had passed among these pillars, I had a whimper, like the whimper of some fierce animal, between rage and fear, and saw that the shadow had not followed me within the circle. I stopped and waited, conjecturing at once that I'd found a sanctuary my own, unwelcome familiar would not dare to enter, and in this the action of the shadow confirmed me.

The thing hesitated, then ran about the circle of columns, pausing often between them, and whimpering all the while, at last went away and disappeared in the desert toward the setting sun. For a full half-hour, I did not dare to move. Then the imminence of night, with all its probabilities of fresh terror, urged me to push on as far as I could to the north. For I was now in the very heart of Yondo where demons or phantoms might dwell, who would not respect the sanctuary of the unbroken Golanes. Now as I toiled on, the sunlight altered strangely.

For the red orb nearing the moundage horizon sank and smoulded in a belt of miasmal haze, where floating dust from all the shattered fains and necropolis of Yondo was mixed with evil vapors coiling skyward from the black enormous gulfs lying beyond the utmost rim of the world. In that light, the entire waist, the rounded mountains, the serpentine hills, the lost cities were all drenched with phantasmal and darkening scarlet. Then, out of the north, where shadows mustered, became a curious figure, a tall man fully caparisoned in chain mail, or rather what I assumed to be a man. As the figure approached me, clanking dismally at each step, on the shrouded ground. I saw that his armour was of brass mottled with verdigris,

and a cusk of the same metal furnished with coiling horns and a seraco rose high above its head. Now, I say its head, for the sunset was darkening, and I could not clearly see at any distance. But when the apparition came abreast, I perceived that there was no face beneath the brows of the bizarre helmet whose empty edges were outlined for a moment against the smouldering light. Then the figure passed on, still clanking dismally and vanished. But on its heels the sunset faded. There came a second apparition, striding with incredible strides and halting when it loomed almost upon me in the red twilight.

The monstrous mummy of some ancient king still crowned with untarnished gold, but turned into my gaze the visage that more than time or the worm had wasted. broken swathings flat about the skeleton legs and above the crown that was set with sapphires and orange rubies a black something swayed and nodded horribly but for an instant i did not dream what it was then in its middle two oblique and scarlet eyes opened and glowed like hellish coals and two of fideon fangs glittered in an ape-like mouth. A squat, furless, shapeless head on a neck of disproportionate extent, leaned unspeakably down and whispered in the mummy's ear.

Then, with one stride, the Titanic Lake took off the distance between us, and from out the folds of the tattered searcloth a gone arm rose, and fleshless, tallened fingers laden with glowing gems, reached out and fumbled for my throat. Back, back through eons of madness and dread. In a prone, precipitate flight, I ran from those fumbling fingers that hung always on the dust behind me, back, back forever, unthinking, unhesitating, to all the abominations I had left. Back in a thickening twilight toward the nameless and sharded ruins, the haunted lake, the forest of evil cacti, and the cruel, the cynical inquisitors of Ong who waited my return.

I do so hope you enjoyed those four classic tales by some of the greatest horror writers of all time for your listening pleasure this evening. Well, the time has come for me to say goodbye, but I'll be back again next week, and I do so hope you'll all join me again then. So until next time. Sweet dream is in bye-bah.