By Z. B. BISHOP
A powerful and compelling tale of brooding horror that deepens andbroadens to the final catastrophe—an unusual and engrossing noveletteby the author of "The Curse of Yig."
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales January 1939.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The drive toward Cape Girardeau had been through unfamiliar country;and as the late afternoon light grew golden and half dream-likeI realized that I must have directions if I expected to reach thetown before night. I did not care to be wandering about these bleaksouthern Missouri lowlands after dark, for roads were poor and theNovember cold rather formidable in an open roadster. Black clouds, too,were massing on the horizon; so I looked about among the long gray andblue shadows that streaked the flat, brownish fields, hoping to glimpsesome house where I might get the needed information.
It was a lonely and deserted country, but at last I spied a roofamong a clump of trees near the small river on my right; perhaps afull half-mile from the road, and probably reachable by some path ordrive upon which I would presently come. In the absence of any nearerdwelling, I resolved to try my luck there; and was glad when the bushesby the roadside revealed the ruin of a carved stone gateway, coveredwith dry, dead vines and choked with undergrowth which explained whyI had not been able to trace the path across the fields in my firstdistant view. I saw that I could not drive the car in; so I parked itvery carefully near the gate—where a thick evergreen would shield itin case of rain—and got out for the long walk to the house.
Traversing that brush-grown path in the gathering twilight I wasconscious of a distinct sense of foreboding, probably induced by theair of sinister decay hovering about the gate and the former driveway.From the carvings on the old stone pillars I inferred that this placewas once an estate of manorial dignity; and I could clearly see thatthe driveway had originally boasted guardian lines of linden trees,some of which had died, while others had lost their special identityamong the wild scrub growths of the region.
As I plowed onward, cockleburrs and stickers clung to my clothes, andI began to wonder whether the place could be inhabited after all. WasI tramping on a vain errand? For a moment I was tempted to go back andtry some farm farther along the road, when a view of the house aheadaroused my curiosity and stimulated my venturesome spirit.
There was something provocatively fascinating in the tree-girt,decrepit pile before me, for it spoke of the graces and spaciousnessof a bygone era and a far more southerly environment. It was a typicalwooden plantation house of the classic, early Nineteenth Centurypattern, with two and a half stories and a great Ionic portico whosepillars reached up as far as the attic and supported a triangularpediment. Its state of decay was extreme and obvious: one of the vastcolumns having rotted and fallen to the ground, while the upper piazzaor balcony had sagged dangerously low. Other buildings, I judged, hadformerly stood near it.
As I mounted the broad stone steps to the low porch and the carved andfour-lighted doorway I felt distinctly nervous, and started to lighta cigarette—desisting when I saw how dry and inflammable everythingabout me was. Though now convinced that the house was deserted, Inevertheless hesitated to violate its dignity without knocking; so Itugged at the rusty iron knocker until I could get it to move, andfinally set up a cautious rapp