Weird Tales volume 28 number 02

by Wright, Farnsworth, 1888-€“1940

  -October WEIRD TALES ... Out September 1

  WEIRD TALES

  Four Wooden Stakes

  (Continued from page 244) with the cries of miscellaneous night fowl and other nocturnal creatures.

  As I ascended the two flights of steps, the candle in my hand casting grotesque shadows on the walls and ceiling, I had little liking for my job. Many times in the course of duty I had been called upon to display courage, but it took more than mere courage to keep me going now.

  I extinguished the candle and crept forward to Remson's room, the door of which was closed. Being careful to make no noise, I knelt and looked in at the keyhole. It afforded me a clear view of the bed and two of the windows in the opposite wall. Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the darkness and I noticed a faint reddish glow outside one of the windows. It apparently emanated from nowhere. Hundreds of little specks danced and whirled in the spot of light, and as I watched them, fascinated, they seemed to take on the form of a human face. The features were masculine, as was also the arrangement of the hair. Then the mysterious glow disappeared.

  So great had the strain been on me that I was wet from perspiration, although the night was cool. For a moment I was undecided whether to enter the room or to stay where I was and use the keyhole as a means of observation. I concluded that to remain where I was would be the better plan; so I once more placed my eye to the hole.

  Immediately my attention was drawn to something moving where the light had been. At first, owing to the poor light, I was unable to distinguish the general outline and form of the thing; then I saw. It was a man's head.

  So help me God, it was the exact reproduction of that picture I had seen in

  the hall that very morning. But oh, the difference in expression! The lips were drawn back in a snarl, disclosing two sets of pearly white teeth, the canines overdeveloped and remarkably sharp. The eyes, an emerald green in color, stared in. a look of consuming hate. The hair was sadly disarranged, while on the beard was a large clot of what seemed to be congealed blood.

  I noticed thus much; then the head melted from my sight and I transferred my attention to a great bat that circled round and round, his huge wings beating a tattoo on the panes. Finally he circled around the broken pane and flew straight through the hole made by the missing glass. For a few moments he was shut off from my view; then he reappeared and began circling around my friend, who lay sound asleep, blissfully ignorant of all that was occurring. Nearer and nearer it drew, then swooped down and fastened itself on Remson's throat, just over the jugular vein.

  At this I rushed into the room and made a wild dash for the tiling that had come night after night to gorge itself on my friend; but to no avail. It flew out of the window and away, and I turned my attention to the sleeper.

  "Remson, old man, get up."

  He sat up like a shot.

  "What's the matter, Jack? Has it been here?"

  "Never mind just now," I replied. "Just dress as hurriedly as possible. We have a little work before us this evening."

  He glanced questioningly toward me, but followed my command without argument. I turned and cast my eye about the room for a suitable weapon. There was a stout stick lying in the corner and I made toward it.

  "Jack!"

  WEIRD TALES

  247

  I wheeled about.

  "What is it? Damn it all, haven't you any sense, almost scaring a man to death?"

  He pointed a shaking finger toward the window.

  "There! I swear I saw him. It was my granddad, but oh, how disfigured!"

  He threw himself upon the bed and began sobbing. The shock had completely unnerved him.

  "Forgive me, old man," I pleaded; "I was too quick. Pull yourself together and we may yet get to the bottom of things tonight."

  When he had finished dressing we left the house. There was no moon out, and it was pitch-dark.

  I led the way, and soon we came to within ten yards of the little gray crypt. I stationed Remson behind a tree with instructions to just use his eyes, and

  I took up my stand on the other side of the vault, after making sure that the door into it was closed and locked. For the greater part of an hour we waited without results, and I was about ready to call it off when I perceived a white figure flitting between the trees about fifty feet away.

  Slowly it advanced, straight toward us, and as it drew closer I looked, not at it, but through it. The wind was blowing strongly, yet not a fold in the long shroud quivered. Just outside the vault it paused and looked around. Even knowing as I did about what to expect, it was a decided shock when I looked into the eyes of the old Holroyd, deceased these past five years. I heard a gasp and knew that Remson had seen, too, and recognized. Then the spirit, ghost, or whatever it was, passed into the crypt through the crack between the door and the jamb, a space not one-sixteenth of an inch wide.

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  WEIRD TALES

  As it disappeared, Remson came running forward, his face wholly drawn of color.

  "What was it, Jack? What was it? I know it resembled granddad, but it couldn't have been he. He's been dead 6ve years!"

  "Let us go back to the house," I answered, "and I'll explain things to the best of my ability. I may be wrong, of course, but it won't hurt to try my remedy. Remson, what we are up against is a vampire. Not the female species usually spoken of today, but the real thing. I noticed you had an old edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. If you'll bring me volume XXIV I'll be able to explain more fully the meaning of the word."

  He left the room and returned, carrying the desired book. Turning to page 52, I read:

  "Vampire. A teem apparently of Servian origin originally applied in eastern Europe to blood-sucking ghosts, but in modem usage transferred to one or more species of blood-sucking bats inhabiting South America. ... In the first mentioned meaning a vampire is usually supposed to be the soul of a dead man which quits the buried body by night to suck the blood of living persons. Hence, when the vampire's grave is opened his corpse is found to be fresh and rosy from the blood thus absorbed. . . . They are accredited with the power of assuming any form they may so desire, and often fly about as specks or dust, pieces of down or straw, etc. ... To put an end to his ravages a stake is driven through him, or his head cut off, or his heart torn out, or boiling water and vinegar poured over the grave. . . . The persons who turn vampires are wizards, witches, suicides, and those who have come to a violent end. Also, the death of any one resulting from these vampires will cause that person to join their hellish throng. . . . See Calumet's Dissertation on the Vampires of Hungary."

  I looked at Remson, He was staring straight into the fire. I knew that he realized the task before us and was steeling himself to it. Then he turned to me. "Jack, we'll wait until morning." That was all. I understood, and he

  knew. There we sat, each strugglin
g with his own thoughts, until the first faint glimmers of light came struggling, through the trees and warned us of approaching dawn.

  Remson left to fetch a sledge-hammer and a large knife with its edge honed to a razor-like keenness. I busied myself making four wooden stakes, shaped like wedges. He returned bearing the horrible tools, and we struck out toward the crypt. We walked rapidly, for had either of us hesitated an instant I verily believe both would have fled incontinently. However, our duty lay clearly before us.

  Remson unlocked the door and swung it outward. With a prayer on our lips, we entered.

  As if by mutua* understanding, we both turned toward the coffin on our left. It belonged to the grandfather. We displaced the lid, and there lay the old Hoi-royd. He appeared to be sleeping; his face was full of color, and he had none of the stiffness of death. The hair was matted, the mustache untrimmed, and on the beard were stains of a dull brownish hue.

  But it was his eyes that attracted me. They were greenish, and they glowed with an expression of fiendish malevolence such as I had never seen before. The look of baffled rage on the face might well have adorned the features of the devil in his hell.

  Remson swayed and would have fallen, bu I forced some whisky down his throat and he took a grip on himself. He placed one of the stakes directly over its heart, then shut his eyes and prayed that the good God above take this soul that was to be delivered unto Him.

  I took a step backward, aimed care-

  WEIRD TALES

  249

  fully, and swung the sledge with all my strength. It hit the wedge squarely, and a terrible scream filled the place, while the blood gushed out of the open wound, up, and over us, staining the walls and our clothes. Without hesitating, I swung again, and again, and again, while it struggled vainly to rid itself of that awful instrument of death. Another swing and the stake was driven through.

  The thing squirmed about in the narrow confines of the coffin, much after the manner of a dismembered worm, and Remson proceeded to sever the head from the body, making a rather crude but effectual job of it. As the final stroke of the knife cut the connection a scream issued from the mouth; and the whole corpse fell away into dust, leaving nothing but a wooden stake lying in a bed of bones.

  This finished, we dispatched the remaining three. Simultaneously, as if struck by the same thought, we felt our throats. The slight pain was gone from mine, and the wounds had entirely disappeared from my friend's, leaving not even a scar.

  I wished to place before the world the whole facts contingent upon the mystery and the solution, but Remson prevailed upon me to hold my peace.

  Some years later Remson died a Christian death, and with him went the only confirmation of my tale. However, ten miles from the little town of Charing there sits an old house, forgotten these many years, and near it is a little gray crypt. Within are four coffins; and in each lies a wooden stake stained a brownish hue, and bearing the finger prints of the deceased Remson Holroyd.

  BACK COPIES

  Because of the many requests for bade issues of Weird Tales, the publishers do their best to keep a sufficient supply on hand to meet all demands. This magazine was established early in 1923 and there has been a steady drain on (he supply of back copies ever since. At present, we have the following back numbers on hand for sale:

  These back numbers contain many fascinating stories. If you arc interested in obtaining any of the hack copies on this list please hurry your order because we can not guarantee that the list will be as complete as it now is within the next 30 days. The price on all back issues is 25c per copy. Mail all orders to:

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  YOU, the readers of Weird Tales, will notice that this issue is dated August-September, instead of merely August. The change in dating is made in accordance with the current trend in magazine dating, so that Weird Tales will be on sale during the month preceding the date printed on the cover. Our next issue (October) will appear on the stands the first of September; so there will be no break in continuity. All subscriptions will be automatically extended one month.

  Death of Robert E. Howard

  As this issue goes to press, we are saddened by the news of the sudden death of Robert E. Howard at Cross Plains, Texas. Mr. Howard for years has been one of the most popular magazine authors in the country. He was master of a vivid literary style and possessed an inexhaustible imagination. His poems were works of sheer genius. His fictional characters—the dour Puritan adventurer and redresser of wrongs, Solomon Kane; the ancient battle-chief King Kull from the shadowy kingdoms of the dawn of history; the doughty barbarian soldier of fortune, Conan—were so convincingly and vividly drawn that they seemed to step out from the printed page and grip the sym-

  ?athies of the readers. It was in Weird 'ales that the cream of his writing appeared. Mr. Howard was one of our literary discoveries. He made his literary debut in Weird Tales of July, 1925, while he was still a student in the University of Texas. Since then sixty works from his hand have appeared in this magazine. Prolific though he was, his genius shone through everything he wrote, and he did not lower his high literary standard for the sake of mere volume. Red Nails, his current serial in Weird , Tales, is the last of the stories about Conan,

  250

  though several of Mr. Howard's stories witH other heroes will appear in this magazine* His loss will be keenly felt.

  An Ace Issue

  Robert A, Madle, of Philadelphia, writes: "The June Weird Tales was another ace issue. Everything composing it was good* The cover was the weirdest Margaret Brun-dage ever did. The Count looks as weird and uncanny as Dracula himself. Loot of { the Vampire was an excellent piece of fantastic fiction. Thorp McClusky surely has "what it takes.' His first story ranks as my favorite in the current issue. Hugh Davidson's House of the Evil Eye closely follows Mr. McGusky's yarn. I recognized Doctor Dale as one of the chief characters of The Vampire-Master, published a few years back. The other stories were all good, especially Black Canaan."

  Strange Interval

  Wilfred Wright, of Toronto, writes: "All stories in the current issue show the usual fine literary style, although this issue is markedly lacking in weirdness. I await with keen interest your readers' comment on Sea-bury Quinn's Strange Interval —a splendid horror story of unrefined brutality; but remembering this author's de Grandin yarns one must forgive the lapse from weirdness. While I enjoyed it immensely, and would unhesitatingly give it first place, it automatically disqualifies itself, and Burks' The Room of Shadows gets the call, followed closely by Hamilton's Child of the Winds. The Graveyard Rats by Kuttner was the most gruesome weird tale this year. Generally WT progresses splendidly over the many years I have been a reader, and I wish you continued success,"

  WEIRD TALES

  251

  Miss Hemken's Comments

  Gertrude Hemken, of Chicago, writes: "June comments as follows, to wit: Thorp McCIusky is a new author to me, but his Loot of the Vampire promises something very, ray interesting. The fact that a detective detail is involved should bring no unfavorable comment, inasmuch as it is a vampire story. I feel that it shows an example of the modern police system against something far more ancient and deep than any form of public protection. It is truly a spine-free2ing tale. Another new note in vampire tales—the Count, if he is the vampire, resorts to robbery. I never knew them to do that. Aaaahh! Black Canaan was also perfect, the kind one reads with eyes popping and mouth agape. Is this a form of voodoo one reads so much of, or is it something more ancient? And then I learned something' more, of which I had only a smattering knowledge—that of the evil eye. Somehow I had believed the evil eye was used only on such persons as the possessor wished to harm. So—you are proving educational to me as well. It seems I have not been fair in not including comments on the poetry in my monthly letter, inasmuch as I am a lover of poetry. This Ballad of the Wolf I found pleasant reading. There was a rhythmic swing t
o it, and although it spoke of olden days, I found no obsolete words. I have no objections to such words in prose, but they seem to jar the rhythm of poetry. Invariably I don't know what they mean, I'm not sure of my pronunciation, and that ldnda spoils it. I think Henry Kuttner is a pretty good rimester. I hope to see more of his work. The Ruler of Fate ended to my satisfaction. Narsty Aru was killed dead and lovely Athonee was left to control her machine of destiny with kindliness to the man of Earth. And I s'pose the hero and heroine were married and lived happily ever afterward. I found The Harbor of Ghosts very interesting. Somehow it was different from what I had been reading, and when the young sailor entered the harbor of ghost ships, I had the impression of the fabled elephants' graveyard. There was a similarity in that the lost ship sought a final resting-place with others of its kind. The reprint, The Brain in the far, surprized me. I had figured it to be a brain wielding malignant power and cruel devastating horror. However, it was a very nice brain and sought

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