Fulfillment by Will Garth

by Monte Herridge

  was so great that she felt in a most melting

  was not crazy. And she knew she did not

  mood toward the manager of her affairs.

  dream these yearly episodes which wove that

  “Very well,” she said. “Tell him I am

  strange, irrelevant, and inexplicable pattern ready to sign those proxies for him and wind through her otherwise normal and sane things up. Wait, help me up first.” She threw existence.

  back the silken coverlet, preparatory to sitting

  “No! No!” she cried out in horror now

  up. “Bring over the—”

  against a dread of she knew not what as her

  She broke off in stunned horror. As

  skeleton completely disappeared.

  she moved it sounded like the rattling of

  But her protests were as naught to this

  parchment and dried bones. As she tossed

  high priest of Ammon who was the back the cover, instead of a satin night counterpart of Artemus Russo. And Marjorie

  negligee from Paris upon the lovely body of a

  became aware of a pair of hands, cold and

  twenty-five-year-old beauty, she exposed the

  clammy as early morning fog off the Sound,

  gray-brown and dried skin of an Egyptian

  which gripped her head. She rolled her eyes to

  mummy. Her hands were two shrunken claws,

  Strange Stories

  6

  the outline of the bones showing plainly from

  the room where her mistress’ prized

  elbow to fingers.

  sarcophagus stood, and she screamed. The lid

  One terrible shriek Marjorie was off, and the headless mummy that should Westbrook gave ere death overtook her. The

  have reposed in the case was gone!

  horrible episodes of her nocturnal life had

  “Mr. Russo! Mr. Russo!” she cried as

  finally broken through the barrier that had

  she fled to the outer room. Her voice choked,

  always surrounded and protected her—had cut off abruptly as she stared at the couch overtaken her at last. The six thousand years

  where she had left the general manager sitting.

  were up!

  Lying full-length on the couch was Artemus

  The maid stared, petrified, at the Russo, his body as still as death and his face lovely head perfectly joined to that of the six-parchment yellow and amazingly, horribly

  thousand- year- old mummy of an Egyptian

  wrinkled with lines that told of the passage of

  woman. Her eyes rolled wildly to a corner of

  centuries.