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Content
George MacDonald:
The Shadows
H P Lovecraft:
From Beyond
The Mysteroius Death of Poe
E & H Hernon:
The Story of the Sevens Hall
Algernon Blackwood:
The Running Wolf
Philip K Dick:
Adjustment Team
A Short Biography of Philip K Dick
Robert W Chambers:
The Messenger
What is Cryptozoology?
Great Links













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THE SHADOWS
By George MacDonald

Old Ralph Rinkelmann made his living by comic sketches, and all but lost it again by tragic
poems. So he was just the man to be chosen king of the fairies, for in Fairyland the
sovereignty is elective.
It is no doubt very strange that fairies should desire to have a mortal king; but the fact is, that
with all their knowledge and power, they cannot get rid of the feeling that some men are
greater than they are, though they can neither fly nor play tricks. So at such times as there
happens to be twice the usual number of sensible electors, such a man as Ralph Rinkelmann
gets to be chosen.
They did not mean to insist on his residence; for they needed his presence only on special
occasions. But they must get hold of him somehow, first of all, in order to make him king.
Once he was crowned, they could get him as often as they pleased; but before this ceremony
there was a difficulty. For it is only between life and death that the fairies have power over
grown-up mortals, and can carry them off to their country. So they had to watch for an
opportunity.
Nor had they to wait long. For old Ralph was taken dreadfully ill; and while hovering between
life and death, they carried him off, and crowned him king of Fairyland. But after he was
crowned, it was no wonder, considering the state of his health, that he should not be able to sit
quite upright on the throne of Fairyland; or that, in consequence, all the gnomes and goblins,
and ugly, cruel things that live in the holes and corners of the kingdom, should take advantage
of his condition, and run quite wild, playing him, king as he was, all sorts of tricks; crowding
about his throne, climbing up the steps, and actually scrambling and quarrelling like mice
about his ears and eyes, so that he could see and think of nothing else. But I am not going to
tell anything more about this part of his adventures just at present. By strong and sustained
efforts, he succeeded, after much trouble and suffering, in reducing his rebellious subjects to
order. They all vanished to their respective holes and corners; and King Ralph, coming to
himself, found himself in his bed, half propped up with pillows.
But the room was full of dark creatures, which gambolled about in the firelight in such a
strange, huge, though noiseless fashion, that he thought at first that some of his rebellious
goblins had not been subdued with the rest, but had followed him beyond the bounds of
Fairyland into his own private house in London. How else could these mad, grotesque
hippopotamus-calves make their ugly appearance in Ralph Rinkelmann's bed-room? But he
soon found out that although they were like the underground goblins, they were very different
as well, and would require quite different treatment. He felt convinced that they were his
subjects too, but that he must have overlooked them somehow at his late coronationif
indeed they had been present; for he could not recollect that he had seen anything just like
them before. He resolved, therefore, to pay particular attention to their habits, ways, and
characters; else he saw plainly that they would soon be too much for him; as indeed this
intrusion into his chamber, where Mrs. Rinkelmann, who must be queen if he was king, sat
taking some tea by the fireside, evidently foreshadowed. But she, perceiving that he was
looking about him with a more composed expression than his face had worn for many days,
started up, and came quickly and quietly to his side, and her face was bright with gladness.
Whereupon the fire burned up more cheerily; and the figures became more composed and
respectful in their behaviour, retreating towards the wall like well-trained attendants. Then the

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king of Fairyland had some tea and dry toast, and leaning back on his pillows, nearly fell
asleep; but not quite, for he still watched the intruders.
Presently the queen left the room to give some of the young princes and princesses their tea;
and the fire burned lower, and behold, the figures grew as black and as mad in their gambols
as ever! Their favourite games seemed to be Hide and Seek; Touch and Go; Grin and Vanish;
and many other such; and all in the king's bed-chamber, too; so that it was quite alarming. It
was almost as bad as if the house had been haunted by certain creatures which shall be
nameless in a fairy story, because with them Fairyland will not willingly have much to do.
"But it is a mercy that they have their slippers on!" said the king to himself; for his head
ached.
As he lay back, with his eyes half shut and half open, too tired to pay longer attention to their
games, but, on the whole, considerably more amused than offended with the liberties they
took, for they seemed good-natured creatures, and more frolicsome than positively ill-
mannered, he became suddenly aware that two of them had stepped forward from the walls,
upon which, after the manner of great spiders, most of them preferred sprawling, and now
stood in the middle of the floor at the foot of his majesty's bed, becking and bowing and
ducking in the most grotesquely obsequious manner; while every now and then they turned
solemnly round upon one heel, evidently considering that motion the highest token of homage
they could show.
"What do you want?" said the king.
"That it may please your majesty to be better acquainted with us," answered they. "We are
your majesty's subjects."
"I know you are. I shall be most happy," answered the king.
"We are not what your majesty takes us for, though. We are not so foolish as your majesty
thinks us."
"It is impossible to take you for anything that I know of," rejoined the king, who wished to
make them talk, and said whatever came uppermost;"for soldiers, sailors, or anything: you
will not stand still long enough. I suppose you really belong to the fire brigade; at least, you
keep putting its light out."
"Don't jest, please your majesty." And as they said the wordsfor they both spoke at once
throughout the interviewthey performed a grave somerset towards the king.
"Not jest!" retorted he; "and with you? Why, you do nothing but jest. What are you?"
"The Shadows, sire. And when we do jest, sire, we always jest in earnest. But perhaps your
majesty does not see us distinctly."
"I see you perfectly well," returned the king.
"Permit me, however," rejoined one of the Shadows; and as he spoke he approached the king;
and lifting a dark forefinger, he drew it lightly but carefully across the ridge of his forehead,

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from temple to temple. The king felt the soft gliding touch go, like water, into every hollow,
and over the top of every height of that mountain-chain of thought. He had involuntarily
closed his eyes during the operation, and when he unclosed them again, as soon as the finger
was withdrawn, he found that they were opened in more senses than one. The room appeared
to have extended itself on all sides, till he could not exactly see where the walls were; and all
about it stood the Shadows motionless. They were tall and solemn; rather awful, indeed, in
their appearance, notwithstanding many remarkable traits of grotesqueness, for they looked
just like the pictures of Puritans drawn by Cavaliers, with long arms, and very long, thin legs,
from which hung large loose feet, while in their countenances length of chin and nose
predominated. The solemnity of their mien, however, overcame all the oddity of their form, so
that they were very eerie indeed to look at, dressed as they all were in funereal black. But a
single glance was all that the king was allowed to have; for the former operator waved his
dusky palm across his vision, and once more the king saw only the fire-lighted walls, and dark
shapes flickering about upon them. The two who had spoken for the rest seemed likewise to
have vanished. But at last the king discovered them, standing one on each side of the
fireplace. They kept close to the chimney-wall, and talked to each other across the length of
the chimney-piece; thus avoiding the direct rays of the fire, which, though light is necessary to
their appearing to human eyes, do not agree with them at allmuch less give birth to them, as
the king was soon to learn. After a few minutes they again approached the bed, and spoke
thus:
"It is now getting dark, please your majesty. We mean, out of doors in the snow. Your
majesty may see, from where he is lying, the cold light of its great winding-sheeta famous
carpet for the Shadows to dance upon, your majesty. All our brothers and sisters will be at
church now, before going to their night's work."
"Do they always go to church before they go to work?"
"They always go to church first."
"Where is the church?"
"In Iceland. Would your majesty like to see it?"
"How can I go and see it, when, as you know very well, I am ill in bed? Besides, I should be
sure to take cold in a frosty night like this, even if I put on the blankets, and took the feather-
bed for a muff."
A sort of quivering passed over their faces, which seemed to be their mode of laughing. The
whole shape of the face shook and fluctuated as if it had been some dark fluid; till by slow
degrees of gathering calm, it settled into its former rest. Then one of them drew aside the
curtains of the bed, and the window-curtains not having been yet drawn, the king beheld the
white glimmering night outside, struggling with the heaps of darkness that tried to quench it;
and the heavens full of stars, flashing and sparkling like live jewels. The other Shadow went
towards the fire and vanished in it.
Scores of Shadows immediately began an insane dance all about the room; disappearing, one
after the other, through the uncovered window, and gliding darkly away over the face of the
white snow; for the window looked at once on a field of snow. In a few moments, the room
was quite cleared of them; but instead of being relieved by their absence, the king felt

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immediately as if he were in a dead-house, and could hardly breathe for the sense of
emptiness and desolation that fell upon him. But as he lay looking out on the snow, which
stretched blank and wide before him, he spied in the distance a long dark line which drew
nearer and nearer, and showed itself at last to be all the Shadows, walking in a double row,
and carrying in the midst of them something like a bier. They vanished under the window, but
soon reappeared, having somehow climbed up the wall of the house; for they entered in
perfect order by the window, as if melting through the transparency of the glass.
They still carried the bier or litter. It was covered with richest furs, and skins of gorgeous wild
beasts, whose eyes were replaced by sapphires and emeralds, that glittered and gleamed in the
fire and snow light. The outermost skin sparkled with frost, but the inside ones were soft and
warm and dry as the down under a swan's wing. The Shadows approached the bed, and set the
litter upon it. Then a number of them brought a huge fur robe, and wrapping it round the king,
laid him on the litter in the midst of the furs. Nothing could be more gentle and respectful than
the way in which they moved him; and he never thought of refusing to go. Then they put
something on his head, and, lifting the litter, carried him once round the room, to fall into
order. As he passed the mirror he saw that he was covered with royal ermine, and that his
head wore a wonderful crown of gold, set with none but red stones: rubies and carbuncles and
garnets, and others whose names he could not tell, glowed gloriously around his head, like the
salamandrine essence of all the Christmas fires over the world. A sceptre lay beside hima
rod of ebony, surmounted by a cone-shaped diamond, which, cut in a hundred facets, flashed
all the hues of the rainbow, and threw coloured gleams on every side, that looked like
Shadows too, but more ethereal than those that bore him. Then the Shadows rose gently to the
window, passed through it, and sinking slowing upon the field of outstretched snow,
commenced an orderly gliding rather than march along the frozen surface. They took it by
turns to bear the king, as they sped with the swiftness of thought, in a straight line towards the
north. The pole-star rose above their heads with visible rapidity; for indeed they moved quite
as fast as sad thoughts, though not with all the speed of happy desires. England and Scotland
slid past the litter of the king of the Shadows. Over rivers and lakes they skimmed and glided.
They climbed the high mountains, and crossed the valleys with a fearless bound; till they
came to John-o'-Groat's house and the Northern Sea. The sea was not frozen; for all the stars
shone as clear out of the deeps below as they shone out of the deeps above; and as the bearers
slid along the blue-gray surface, with never a furrow in their track, so pure was the water
beneath that the king saw neither surface, bottom, nor substance to it, and seemed to be
gliding only through the blue sphere of heaven, with the stars above him, and the stars below
him, and between the stars and him nothing but an emptiness, where, for the first time in his
life, his soul felt that it had room enough.
At length they reached the rocky shores of Iceland. There they landed, still pursuing their
journey. All this time the king felt no cold; for the red stones in his crown kept him warm, and
the emerald and sapphire eyes of the wild beasts kept the frosts from settling upon his litter.
Oftentimes upon their way they had to pass through forests, caverns, and rock-shadowed
paths, where it was so dark that at first the king feared he should lose his Shadows altogether.
But as soon as they entered such places, the diamond in his sceptre began to shine and glow,
and flash, sending out streams of light of all the colours that painter's soul could dream of; in
which light the Shadows grew livelier and stronger than ever, speeding through the dark ways
with an all but blinding swiftness. In the light of the diamond, too, some of their forms
became more simple and human, while others seemed only to break out into a yet more
untamable absurdity. Once, as they passed through a cave, the king actually saw some of their

7

eyesstrange shadow-eyes; he had never seen any of their eyes before. But at the same
moment when he saw their eyes, he knew their faces too, for they turned them full upon him
for an instant; and the other Shadows, catching sight of these, shrank and shivered, and nearly
vanished. Lovely faces they were; but the king was very thoughtful after he saw them, and
continued rather troubled all the rest of the journey. He could not account for those faces
being there, and the faces of Shadows, too, with living eyes.
But he soon found that amongst the Shgadows a man must learn never to be surprised at
anything; for if he does not, he will soon grow quite stupid, in consequence of the endless
recurrence of surprises.
At last they climbed up the bed of a little stream, and then, passing through a narrow rocky
defile, came out suddenly upon the side of a mountain, overlooking a blue frozen lake in the
very heart of mighty hills. Overhead, the aurora borealis was shivering and flashing like a
battle of ten thousand spears. Underneath, its beams passed faintly over the blue ice and the
sides of the snow-clad mountains, whose tops shot up like huge icicles all about, with here
and there a star sparkling on the very tip of one. But as the northern lights in the sky above, so
wavered and quivered, and shot hither and thither, the Shadows on the surface of the lake
below; now gathering in groups, and now shivering asunder; now covering the whole surface
of the lake, and anon condensed into one dark knot in the centre. Every here and there on the
white mountains might be seen two or three shooting away towards the tops, to vanish beyond
them, so that their number was gradually, though not visibly, diminishing.
"Please your majesty," said the Shadows, "this is our churchthe Church of the Shadows."
And so saying, the king's body-guard set down the litter upon a rock, and plunged into the
multitudes below. They soon returned, however, and bore the king down into the middle of
the lake. All the Shadows came crowding round him, respectfully but fearlessly; and sure
never such a grotesque assembly revealed itself before to mortal eyes. The king had seen all
kind of gnomes, goblins, and kobolds at his coronation; but they were quite rectilinear figures
compared with the insane lawlessness of form in which the Shadows rejoiced; and the wildest
gambols of the former were orderly dances of ceremony beside the apparently aimless and
wilful contortions of figure, and metamorphoses of shape, in which the latter indulged. They
retained, however, all the time, to the surprise of the king, an identity, each of his own type,
inexplicably perceptible through every change. Indeed this preservation of the primary idea of
each form was more wonderful than the bewildering and ridiculous alterations to which the
form itself was every moment subjected.
"What are you?" said the king, leaning on his elbow, and looking around him.
"The Shadows, your majesty," answered several voices at once.
"What Shadows?"
"The human Shadows. The Shadows of men, and women, and their children."
"Are you not the shadows of chairs and tables, and pokers and tongs, just as well?"
At this question a strange jarring commotion went through the assembly with a shock. Several
of the figures shot up as high as the aurora, but instantly settled down again to human size, as

8

if overmastering their feelings, out of respect to him who had roused them. One who had
bounded to the highest visible icy peak, and as suddenly returned, now elbowed his way
through the rest, and made himself spokesman for them during the remaining part of the
dialogue.
"Excuse our agitation, your majesty," said he. "I see your majesty has not yet thought proper
to make himself acquainted with our nature and habits."
"I wish to do so now," replied the king.
"We are the Shadows," repeated the Shadow solemnly.
"Well?" said the king.
"We do not often appear to men."
"Ha!" said the king.
"We do not belong to the sunshine at all. We go through it unseen, and only by a passing chill
do men recognize an unknown presence."
"Ha!" said the king again.
"It is only in the twilight of the fire, or when one man or woman is alone with a single candle,
or when any number of people are all feeling the same thing at once, making them one, that
we show ourselves, and the truth of things."
"Can that be true that loves the night?" said the king.
"The darkness is the nurse of light," answered the Shadow.
"Can that be true which mocks at forms?" said the king.
"Truth rides abroad in shapeless storms," answered the Shadow.
"Ha! ha!" thought Ralph Rinkelmann, "it rhymes. The Shadow caps my questions with his
answers. Very strange!" And he grew thoughtful again.
The Shadow was the first to resume.
"Please your majesty, may we present our petition?"
"By all means," replied the king. "I am not well enough to receive it in proper state."
"Never mind, your majesty. We do not care for much ceremony; and indeed none of us are
quite well at present. The subject of our petition weighs upon us."
"Go on," said the king.

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"Sire," began the Shadow, "our very existence is in danger. The various sorts of artificial
light, both in houses and in men, women, and children, threaten to end our being. The use and
the disposition of gaslights, especially high in the centres, blind the eyes by which alone we
can be perceived. We are all but banished from towns. We are driven into villages and lonely
houses, chiefly old farm-houses, out of which, even, our friends the fairies are fast
disappearing. We therefore petition our king, by the power of his art, to restore us to our
rights in the house itself, and in the hearts of its inhabitants."
"But," said the king, "you frighten the children."
"Very seldom, your majesty; and then only for their good. We seldom seek to frighten
anybody. We mostly want to make people silent and thoughtful; to awe them a little, your
majesty."
"You are much more likely to make them laugh," said the king.
"Are we?" said the Shadow.
And approaching the king one step, he stood quite still for a moment. The diamond of the
king's sceptre shot out a vivid flame of violet light, and the king stared at the Shadow in
silence, and his lip quivered. He never told what he saw then; but he would say:
"Just fancy what it might be if some flitting thoughts were to persist in staying to be looked
at."
"It is only," resumed the Shadow, "when our thoughts are not fixed upon any particular
object, that our bodies are subject to all the vagaries of elemental influences. Generally,
amongst worldly men and frivolous women, we only attach ourselves to some article of
furniture or of dress; and they never doubt that we are mere foolish and vague results of the
dashing of the waves of the light against the solid forms of which their houses are full. We do
not care to tell them the truth, for they would never see it. But let the worldly manor the
frivolous womanand then"
At each of the pauses indicated, the mass of Shadows throbbed and heaved with emotion; but
they soon settled again into comparative stillness. Once more the Shadow addressed himself
to speak. But suddenly they all looked up, and the king, following their gaze, saw that the
aurora had begun to pale.
"The moon is rising," said the Shadow. "As soon as she looks over the mountains into the
valley, we must be gone, for we have plenty to do by the moon; we are powerful in her light.
But if your majesty will come here to-morrow night, your majesty may learn a great deal
more about us, and judge for himself whether it be fit to accord our petition; for then will be
our grand annual assembly, in which we report to our chiefs the things we have attempted,
and the good or bad success we have had."
"If you send for me," returned the king, "I will come."
Ere the Shadow could reply, the tip of the moon's crescent horn peeped up from behind an icy
pinnacle, and one slender ray fell on the lake. It shone upon no Shadows. Ere the eye of the

10

king could again seek the earth after beholding the first brightness of the moon's resurrection,
they had vanished; and the surface of the lake glittered gold and blue in the pale moonlight.
There the king lay, alone in the midst of the frozen lake, with the moon staring at him. But at
length he heard from somewhere a voice that he knew.
"Will you take another cup of tea, dear?" said Mrs. Rinkelmann.
And Ralph, coming slowly to himself, found that he was lying in his own bed.
"Yes, I will," he answered; "and rather a large piece of toast, if you please; for I have been a
long journey since I saw you last."
"He has not come to himself quite," said Mrs. Rinkelmann, between her and herself.
"You would be rather surprised," continued Ralph, "if I told you where I had been."
"I dare say I should," responded his wife.
"Then I will tell you," rejoined Ralph.
But at that moment, a great Shadow bounced out of the fire with a single huge leap, and
covered the whole room. Then it settled in one corner, and Ralph saw it shaking its fist at him
from the end of a preposterous arm. So he took the hint, and held his peace. And it was as
well for him. For I happen to know something about the Shadows too; and I know that if he
had told his wife all about it just then, they would not have sent for him the following
evening.
But as the king, after finishing his tea and toast, lay and looked about him, the Shadows
dancing in his room seemed to him odder and more inexplicable than ever. The whole
chamber was full of mystery. So it generally was, but now it was more mysterious than ever.
After all that he had seen in the Shadow-church, his own room and its Shadows were yet more
wonderful and unintelligible than those.
This made it the more likely that he had seen a true vision; for instead of making common
things look commonplace, as a false vision would have done, it had made common things
disclose the wonderful that was in them.
"The same applies to all arts as well," thought Ralph Rinkelmann.
The next afternoon, as the twilight was growing dusky, the king lay wondering whether or not
the Shadows would fetch him again. He wanted very much to go, for he had enjoyed the
journey exceedingly, and he longed, besides, to hear some of the Shadows tell their stories.
But the darkness grew deeper and deeper, and the shadows did not come. The cause was, that
Mrs. Rinkelmann sat by the fire in the gloaming; and they could not carry off the king while
she was there. Some of them tried to frighten her away by playing the oddest pranks on the
walls, and floor, and ceiling; but altogether without effect; the queen only smiled, for she had
a good conscience. Suddenly, however, a dreadful scream was heard from the nursery, and
Mrs. Rinkelmann rushed upstairs to see what was the matter. No sooner had she gone than the

11

two warders of the chimney-corners stepped out into the middle of the room, and said, in a
low voice,
"Is your majesty ready?"
"Have you no hearts?" said the king; "or are they as black as your faces? Did you not hear the
child scream? I must know what is the matter with her before I go."
"Your majesty may keep his mind easy on that point," replied the warders. "We had tried
everything we could think of to get rid of her majesty the queen, but without effect. So a
young madcap Shadow, half against the will of the older ones of us, slipped upstairs into the
nursery; and has, no doubt, succeeded in appalling the baby, for he is very lithe and long-
legged.Now, your majesty."
"I will have no such tricks played in my nursery," said the king, rather angrily. "You might
put the child beside itself."
"Then there would be twins, your majesty. And we rather like twins."
"None of your miserable jesting! You might put the child out of her wits."
"Impossible, sire; for she has not got into them yet."
"Go away," said the king.
"Forgive us, your majesty. Really, it will do the child good; for that Shadow will, all her life,
be to her a symbol of what is ugly and bad. When she feels in danger of hating or envying
anyone, that Shadow will come back to her mind and make her shudder."
"Very well," said the king. "I like that. Let us go."
The Shadows went through the same ceremonies and preparations as before; during which,
the young Shadow before-mentioned contrived to make such grimaces as kept the baby in
terror, and the queen in the nursery, till all was ready. Then with a bound that doubled him up
against the ceiling, and a kick of his legs six feet out behind him, he vanished through the
nursery door, and reached the king's bed-chamber just in time to take his place with the last
who were melting through the window in the rear of the litter, and settling down upon the
snow beneath. Away they went as before, a gliding blackness over the white carpet. And it
was Christmas-eve.
When they came in sight of the mountain-lake, the king saw that it was crowded over its
whole surface with a changeful intermingling of Shadows. They were all talking and listening
alternately, in pairs, trios, and groups of every size. Here and there large companies were
absorbed in attention to one elevated above the rest, not in a pulpit, or on a platform, but on
the stilts of his own legs, elongated for the nonce. The aurora, right overhead, lighted up the
lake and the sides of the mountains, by sending down from the zenith, nearly to the surface of
the lake, great folded vapours, luminous with all the colours of a faint rainbow.
Many, however, as the words were that passed on all sides, not a shadow of a sound reached
the ears of the king: the shadow-speech could not enter his corporeal organs. One of his

12

guides, however, seeing that the king wanted to hear and could not, went through a strange
manipulation of his head and ears; after which he could hear perfectly, though still only the
voice to which, for the time, he directed his attention. This, however, was a great advantage,
and one which the king longed to carry back with him to the world of men.
The king now discovered that this was not merely the church of the Shadows, but their news
exchange at the same time. For, as the shadows have no writing or printing, the only way in
which they can make each other acquainted with their doings and thinkings, is to meet and
talk at this word-mart and parliament of shades. And as, in the world, people read their
favourite authors, and listen to their favourite speakers, so here the Shadows seek their
favourite Shadows, listen to their adventures, and hear generally what they have to say.
Feeling quite strong, the king rose and walked about amongst them, wrapped in his ermine
robe, with his red crown on his head, and his diamond sceptre in his hand. Every group of
Shadows to which he drew near, ceased talking as soon as they saw him approach; but at a
nod they went on again directly, conversing and relating and commenting, as if no one was
there of other kind or of higher rank than themselves. So the king heard a good many stories.
At some of them he laughed, and at some of them he cried. But if the stories that the Shadows
told were printed, they would make a book that no publisher could produce fast enough to
satisfy the buyers. I will record some of the things that the king heard, for he told them to me
soon after. In fact, I was for some time his private secretary.
"I made him confess before a week was over," said a gloomy old Shadow.
"But what was the good of that?" rejoined a pert young one. "That could not undo what was
done."
"Yes, it could."
"What! bring the dead to life?"
"No; but comfort the murderer. I could not bear to see the pitiable misery he was in. He was
far happier with the rope round his neck, than he was with the purse in his pocket. I saved him
from killing himself too."
"How did you make him confess?"
"Only by wallowing on the wall a little."
"How could that make him tell?"
"He knows."
The Shadow was silent; and the king turned to another, who was preparing to speak.
"I made a fashionable mother repent."
"How?" broke from several voices, in whose sound was mingled a touch of incredulity.
"Only by making a little coffin on the wall," was the reply.

13

"Did the fashionable mother confess too?"
"She had nothing more to confess than everybody knew."
"What did everybody know then?"
"That she might have been kissing a living child, when she followed a dead one to the
grave.The next will fare better."
"I put a stop to a wedding," said another.
"Horrid shade!" remarked a poetic imp.
"How?" said others. "Tell us how."
"Only by throwing a darkness, as if from the branch of a sconce, over the forehead of a fair
girl.They are not married yet, and I do not think they will be. But I loved the youth who
loved her. How he started! It was a revelation to him."
"But did it not deceive him?"
"Quite the contrary."
"But it was only a shadow from the outside, not a shadow coming through from the soul of
the girl."
"Yes. You may say so. But it was all that was wanted to make the meaning of her forehead
manifestyes, of her whole face, which had now and then, in the pauses of his passion,
perplexed the youth. All of it, curled nostrils, pouting lips, projecting chin, instantly fell into
harmony with that darkness between her eyebrows. The youth understood it in a moment, and
went home miserable. And they're not married yet."
"I caught a toper alone, over his magnum of port," said a very dark Shadow; "and didn't I give
it him! I made delirium tremens first; and then I settled into a funeral, passing slowly along
the length of the opposite wall. I gave him plenty of plumes and mourning coaches. And then
I gave him a funeral service, but I could not manage to make the surplice white, which was all
the better for such a sinner. The wretch stared till his face passed from purple to grey, and
actually left his fifth glass only, unfinished, and took refuge with his wife and children in the
drawing-room, much to their surprise. I believe he actually drank a cup of tea; and although I
have often looked in since, I have never caught him again, drinking alone at least."
"But does he drink less? Have you done him any good?"
"I hope so; but I am sorry to say I can't feel sure about it."
"Humph! Humph! Humph!" grunted various shadow throats.
"I had such fun once!" cried another. "I made such game of a young clergyman!"
"You have no right to make game of anyone."

14

"Oh yes, I havewhen it is for his good. He used to study his sermonswhere do you
think?"
"In his study, of course. Where else should it be?"
"Yes and no. Guess again."
"Out amongst the faces in the streets."
"Guess again."
"In still green places in the country?"
"Guess again."
"In old books?"
"Guess again."
"No, no. Tell us."
"In the looking glass. Ha! ha! ha!"
"He was fair game; fair shadow game."
"I thought so. And I made such fun of him one night on the wall! He had sense enough to see
that it was himself, and very like an ape. So he got ashamed, turned the mirror with its face to
the wall, and thought a little more about his people, and a little less about himself. I was very
glad; for, please your majesty,"and here the speaker turned towards the king"we don't
like the creatures that live in the mirrors. You call them ghosts, don't you?"
Before the king could reply, another had commenced. But the story about the clergyman had
made the king wish to hear one of the shadow-sermons. So he turned him towards a long
Shadow, who was preaching to a very quiet and listening crowd. He was just concluding his
sermon.
"Therefore, dear Shadows, it is the more needful that we love one another as much as we can,
because that is not much. We have no such excuse for not loving as mortals have, for we do
not die like them. I suppose it is the thought of that death that makes them hate so much. Then
again, we go to sleep all day, most of us, and not in the night, as men do. And you know that
we forget everything that happened the night before; therefore, we ought to love well, for the
love is short. Ah! dear Shadow, whom I love now with all my shadowy soul, I shall not love
thee to-morrow eve, I shall not know thee; I shall pass thee in the crowd and never dream that
the Shadow whom I now love is near me then. Happy Shades! for we only remember our tales
until we have told them here, and then they vanish in the shadow-churchyard, where we bury
only our dead selves. Ah! brethren, who would be a man and remember? Who would be a
man and weep? We ought indeed to love one another, for we alone inherit oblivion; we alone
are renewed with eternal birth; we alone have no gathered weight of years. I will tell you the
awful fate of one Shadow who rebelled against his nature, and sought to remember the past.
He said, 'I will remember this eve.' He fought with the genial influences of kindly sleep when

15

the sun rose on the awful dead day of light; and although he could not keep quite awake, he
dreamed of the foregone eve, and he never forgot his dream. Then he tried again the next
night, and the next, and the next; and he tempted another Shadow to try it with him. But at last
their awful fate overtook them; for, instead of continuing to be Shadows, they began to cast
shadows, as foolish men say; and so they thickened and thickened till they vanished out of our
world. They are now condemned to walk the earth, a man and a woman, with death behind
them, and memories within them. Ah, brother Shades! let us love one another, for we shall
soon forget. We are not men, but Shadows."
The king turned away, and pitied the poor Shadows far more than they pitied men.
"Oh! how we played with a musician one night!" exclaimed a Shadow in another group, to
which the king had first directed a passing thought, and then had stopped to listen."Up and
down we went, like the hammers and dampers on his piano. But he took his revenge on us.
For after he had watched us for half an hour in the twilight, he rose and went to his
instrument, and played a shadow-dance that fixed us all in sound for ever. Each could tell the
very notes meant for him; and as long as he played, we could not stop, but went on dancing
and dancing after the music, just as the magicianI mean the musicianpleased. And he
punished us well; for he nearly danced us all off our legs and out of shape into tired heaps of
collapsed and palpitating darkness. We won't go near him for some time again, if we can only
remember it. He had been very miserable all day, he was so poor; and we could not think of
any way of comforting him except making him laugh. We did not succeed, with our wildest
efforts; but it turned out better than we had expected, after all; for his shadow-dance got him
into notice, and he is quite popular now, and making money fast.If he does not take care,
we shall have other work to do with him by and by, poor fellow!"
"I and some others did the same for a poor play-writer once. He had a Christmas piece to
write, and [not] being an original genius, it was not so easy for him to find a subject as it is for
most of his class. I saw the trouble he was in, and collecting a few stray Shadows, we acted, in
dumb-show of course, the funniest bit of nonsense we could think of; and it was quite
successful. The poor fellow watched every motion, roaring with laughter at us, and delight at
the ideas we put into his head. He turned it all into words, and scenes, and actions; and the
piece came off with a splendid success."
"But how long we have to look for a chance of doing anything worth doing," said a long, thin,
especially lugubrious Shadow. "I have only done one thing worth telling ever since we met
last. But I am proud of that."
"What was it? What was it?" rose from twenty voices.
"I crept into a dining-room, one twilight, soon after Christmas-day. I had been drawn thither
by the glow of a bright fire shining through red window-curtains. At first I thought there was
no one there, and was on the point of leaving the room, and going out again into the snowy
street, when I suddenly caught the sparkle of eyes. I found that they belonged to a little boy
who lay very still on a sofa. I crept into a dark corner by the sideboard, and watched him. He
seemed very sad, and did nothing but stare into the fire. At last he sighed out,'I wish
mamma would come home.' 'Poor boy!' thought I, 'there is no help for that but mamma.' Yet I
would try to while away the time for him. So out of my corner I stretched a long shadow arm,
reaching all across the ceiling, and pretended to make a grab at him. He was rather frightened
at first; but he was a brave boy, and soon saw that it was all a joke. So when I did it again, he

16

made a clutch at me; and then we had such fun! For though he often sighed and wished
mamma would come home, he always began again with me; and on we went with the wildest
games. At last his mother's knock came to the door, and starting up in delight, he rushed into
the hall to meet her, and forgot all about poor black me. But I did not mind that in the least;
for when I glided out after him into the hall, I was well repaid for my trouble by hearing his
mother say to him,'Why, Charlie, my dear, you look ever so much better since I left you!'
At that moment I slipped through the closing door, and as I ran across the snow, I heard the
mother say,'What shadow can that be, passing so quickly?' And Charlie answered with a
merry laugh,'Oh! mamma, I suppose it must be the funny shadow that has been playing
such games with me all the time you were out.' As soon as the door was shut, I crept along the
wall and looked in at the dining-room window. And I heard his mamma say, as she led him
into the room, 'What an imagination the boy has!' Ha! ha! ha! Then she looked at him, and the
tears came in her eyes; and she stooped down over him, and I heard the sounds of a mingling
kiss and sob."
"I always look for nurseries full of children," said another; "and this winter I have been very
fortunate. I am sure children belong especially to us. One evening, looking about in a great
city, I saw through the window into a large nursery, where the odious gas had not yet been
lighted. Round the fire sat a company of the most delightful children I had ever seen. They
were waiting patiently for their tea. It was too good an opportunity to be lost. I hurried away,
and gathering together twenty of the best Shadows I could find, returned in a few moments;
and entering the nursery, we danced on the walls one of our best dances. To be sure it was
mostly extemporized; but I managed to keep it in harmony by singing this song, which I made
as we went on. Of course the children could not hear it; they only saw the motions that
answered to it; but with them they seemed to be very much delighted indeed, as I shall
presently prove to you. This was the song:
'Swing, swang, swingle, swuff,
Flicker, flacker, fling, fluff!
Thus we go,
To and fro;
Here and there,
Everywhere,
Born and bred;
Never dead,
Only gone.
'On! Come on.
Looming, glooming,
Spreading, fuming,
Shattering, scattering,
Parting, darting,
Settling, starting,
All our life
Is a strife,
And a wearying for rest
On the darkness' friendly breast.
'Joining, splitting,
Rising, sitting,

17

Laughing, shaking,
Sides all aching,
Grumbling, grim, and gruff.
Swingle, swangle, swuff!
'Now a knot of darkness;
Now dissolved gloom;
Now a pall of blackness
Hiding all the room.
Flicker, flacker, fluff!
Black, and black enough!
'Dancing now like demons;
Lying like the dead;
Gladly would we stop it,
And go down to bed!
But our work we still must do,
Shadow men, as well as you.
'Rooting, rising, shooting,
Heaving, sinking, creeping;
Hid in corners crooning;
Splitting, poking, leaping,
Gathering, towering, swooning.
When we're lurking,
Yet we're working,
For our labour we must do,
Shadow men, as well as you.
Flicker, flacker, fling, fluff!
Swing, swang, swingle, swuff!'
"'How thick the Shadows are!' said one of the childrena thoughtful little girl.
"'I wonder where they come from,' said a dreamy little boy.
"'I think they grow out of the wall,' answered the little girl; 'for I have been watching them
come; first one and then another, and then a whole lot of them. I am sure they grow out of the
walls.'
"'Perhaps they have papas and mammas,' said an older boy, with a smile.
"'Yes, yes; and the doctor brings them in his pocket,' said another, a consequential little
maiden.
"'No; I'll tell you,' said the older boy: 'they're ghosts.'
"'But ghosts are white.'
"'Oh! but these have got black coming down the chimney.'

18

"'No,' said a curious-looking, white-faced boy of fourteen, who had been reading by the
firelight, and had stopped to hear the little ones talk; 'they're body ghosts; they're not soul
ghosts.'
"'A silence followed, broken by the first, the dreamy-eyed boy, who said,
"'I hope they didn't make me;' at which they all burst out laughing. Just then the nurse brought
in their tea, and when she proceeded to light the gas, we vanished."
"I stopped a murder," cried another.
"How? How? How?"
"I will tell you. I had been lurking about a sick-room for some time, where a miser lay,
apparently dying. I did not like the place at all, but I felt as if I should be wanted there. There
were plenty of lurking-places about, for the room was full of all sorts of old furniture,
especially cabinets, chests, and presses. I believe he had in that room every bit of the property
he had spent a long life in gathering. I found that he had gold and gold in those places; for one
night, when his nurse was away, he crept out of bed, mumbling and shaking, and managed to
open one of his chests, though he nearly fell down with the effort. I was peeping over his
shoulder, and such a gleam of gold fell upon me, that it nearly killed me. But hearing his
nurse coming, he slammed the lid down, and I recovered.
"I tried very hard, but I could not do him any good. For although I made all sorts of shapes on
the walls and ceiling, representing evil deeds that he had done, of which there were plenty to
choose from, I could make no shapes on his brain or conscience. He had no eyes for anything
but gold. And it so happened that his nurse had neither eyes nor heart for anything else either.
"'One day, as she was seated beside his bed, but where he could not see her, stirring some
gruel in a basin, to cool it from him, I saw her take a little phial from her bosom, and I knew
by the expression of her face both what it was and what she was going to do with it.
Fortunately the cork was a little hard to get out, and this gave me one moment to think.
"The room was so crowded with all sorts of things, that although there were no curtains on the
four-post bed to hide from the miser the sight of his precious treasures, there was yet but one
small part of the ceiling suitable for casting myself upon in the shape I wished to assume. And
this spot was hard to reach. But having discovered that upon this very place lay a dull gleam
of firelight thrown from a strange old dusty mirror that stood away in some corner, I got in
front of the fire, spied where the mirror was, threw myself upon it, and bounded from its face
upon the oval pool of dim light on the ceiling, assuming, as I passed, the shape of an old
stooping hag, who poured something from a phial into a basin. I made the handle of the spoon
with my own nose, ha! ha!" And the shadow-hand caressed the shadow-tip of the shadow-
nose, before the shadow-tongue resumed.
"The old miser saw me: he would not taste the gruel that night, although his nurse coaxed and
scolded till they were both weary. She pretended to taste it herself, and to think it very good;
but at last retired into a corner, and after making as if she were eating it, took good care to
pour it all out into the ashes."
"But she must either succeed, or starve him, at last," interposed a Shadow.

19

"I will tell you."
"And," interposed a third, "he was not worth saving."
"He might repent," suggested another who was more benevolent.
"No chance of that," returned the former. "Misers never do. The love of money has less in it to
cure itself than any other wickedness into which wretched men can fall. What a mercy it is to
be born a Shadow! Wickedness does not stick to us. What do we care for gold!Rubbish!"
"Amen! Amen! Amen!" came from a hundred shadow-voices.
"You should have let her murder him, and so you would have been quit of him."
"And besides, how was he to escape at last? He could never get rid of her, you know."
"I was going to tell you," resumed the narrator, "only you had so many shadow-remarks to
make, that you would not let me."
"Go on; go on."
"There was a little grandchild who used to come and see him sometimesthe only creature
the miser cared for. Her mother was his daughter; but the old man would never see her,
because she had married against his will. Her husband was now dead, but he had not forgiven
her yet. After the shadow he had seen, however, he said to himself, as he lay awake that
nightI saw the words on his face'How shall I get rid of that old devil? If I don't eat I shall
die; and if I do eat I shall be poisoned. I wish little Mary would come. Ah! her mother would
never have served me so.' He lay awake, thinking such things over and over again, all night
long, and I stood watching him from a dark corner, till the dayspring came and shook me out.
When I came back next night, the room was tidy and clean. His own daughter, a sad-faced but
beautiful woman, sat by his bedside; and little Mary was curled up on the floor by the fire,
imitating us, by making queer shadows on the ceiling with her twisted hands. But she could
not think how ever they got there. And no wonder, for I helped her to some very
unaccountable ones."
"I have a story about a granddaughter, too," said another, the moment that speaker ceased.
"Tell it. Tell it."
"Last Christmas-day," he began, "I and a troop of us set out in the twilight to find some house
where we could all have something to do; for we had made up our minds to act together. We
tried several, but found objections to them all. At last we espied a large lonely country-house,
and hastening to it, we found great preparations making for the Christmas dinner. We rushed
into it, scampered all over it, and made up our minds in a moment that it would do. We
amused ourselves in the nursery first, where there were several children being dressed for
dinner. We generally do go to the nursery first, your majesty. This time we were especially
charmed with a little girl about five years old, who clapped her hands and danced about with
delight at the antics we performed; and we said we would do something for her if we had a
chance. The company began to arrive; and at every arrival we rushed to the hall, and cut
wonderful capers of welcome. Between times we scudded away to see how the dressing went

20

on. One girl about eighteen was delightful. She dressed herself as if she did not care much
about it, but could not help doing it prettily. When she took her last look at the phantom in the
glass, she half smiled to it.But we do not like those creatures that come into the mirrors at
all, your majesty. We don't understand them. They are dreadful to us.She looked rather sad
and pale, but very sweet and hopeful. So we wanted to know all about her, and soon found out
that she was a distant relation and a great favourite of the gentleman of the house, an old man,
in whose face benevolence was mingled with obstinacy and a deep shade of the tyrannical.
We could not admire him much; but we would not make up our minds all at once: Shadows
never do.
"The dinner-bell rang, and down we hurried. The children all looked happy, and we were
merry. But there was one cross fellow among the servants, and didn't we plague him! and
didn't we get fun out of him! When he was bringing up dishes, we lay in wait for him at every
corner, and sprang upon him from the floor, and from over the banisters, and down from the
cornices. He started and stumbled and blundered so in consequence, that his fellow-servants
thought he was tipsy. Once he dropped a plate, and had to pick up the pieces, and hurry away
with them; and didn't we pursue him as he went! It was lucky for him his master did not see
how he went on; but we took care not to let him get into any real scrape, though he was quite
dazed with the dodging of the unaccountable shadows. Sometimes he thought the walls were
coming down upon him; sometimes that the floor was gaping to swallow him; sometimes that
he would be knocked to pieces by the hurrying to and fro, or be smothered in the black crowd.
"When the blazing plum-pudding was carried in we made a perfect shadow-carnival about it,
dancing and mumming in the blue flames, like mad demons. And how the children screamed
with delight!
"The old gentleman, who was very fond of children, was laughing his heartiest laugh, when a
loud knock came to the hall-door. The fair maiden started, turned paler, and then red as the
Christmas fire. I saw it, and flung my hands across her face. She was very glad, and I know
she said in her heart, 'You kind Shadow!' which paid me well. Then I followed the rest into
the hall, and found there a jolly, handsome, brown-faced sailor, evidently a son of the house.
The old man received him with tears in his eyes, and the children with shouts of joy. The
maiden escaped in the confusion, just in time to save herself from fainting. We crowded about
the lamp to hide her retreat, and nearly put it out; and the butler could not get it to burn up
before she had glided into her place again, relieved to find the room so dark. The sailor only
had seen her go, and now he sat down beside her, and, without a word, got hold of her hand in
the gloom. When we all scattered to the walls and the corners, and the lamp blazed up again,
he let her hand go.
"During the rest of the dinner the old man watched the two, and saw that there was something
between them, and was very angry. For he was an important man in his own estimation, and
they had never consulted him. The fact was, they had never known their own minds till the
sailor had gone upon his last voyage, and had learned each other's only this moment.We
found out all this by watching them, and then talking together about it afterwards.The old
gentleman saw, too, that his favourite, who was under such obligation to him for loving her so
much, loved his son better than him; and he grew by degrees so jealous that he overshadowed
the whole table with his morose looks and short answers. That kind of shadowing is very
different from ours; and the Christmas dessert grew so gloomy that we Shadows could not
bear it, and were delighted when the ladies rose to go to the drawing-room. The gentlemen
would not stay behind the ladies, even for the sake of the well-known wine. So the moody

21

host, notwithstanding his hospitality, was left alone at the table in the great silent room. We
followed the company upstairs to the drawing-room, and thence to the nursery for snap-
dragon; but while they were busy with this most shadowy of games, nearly all the Shadows
crept downstairs again to the dining-room, where the old man still sat, gnawing the bone of
his own selfishness. They crowded into the room, and by using every kind of expansion
blowing themselves out like soap-bubblesthey succeeded in heaping up the whole room
with shade upon shade. They clustered thickest about the fire and the lamp, till at last they
almost drowned them in hills of darkness.
"Before they had accomplished so much, the children, tired with fun and frolic, had been put
to bed. But the little girl of five years old, with whom we had been so pleased when first we
arrived, could not go to sleep. She had a little room of her own; and I had watched her to bed,
and now kept her awake by gambolling in the rays of the night-light. When her eyes were
once fixed upon me, I took the shape of her grandfather, representing him on the wall as he
sat in his chair, with his head bent down and his arms hanging listlessly by his sides. And the
child remembered that that was just as she had seen him last; for she had happened to peep in
at the dining-room door after all the rest had gone upstairs. 'What if he should be sitting there
still,' thought she, 'all alone in the dark!' She scrambled out of bed and crept down.
"Meantime the others had made the room below so dark, that only the face and white hair of
the old man could be dimly discerned in the shadowy crowd. For he had filled his own mind
with shadows, which we Shadows wanted to draw out of him. Those shadows are very
different from us, your majesty knows. He was thinking of all the disappointments he had had
in life, and of all the ingratitude he had met with. And he thought far more of the good he had
done, than the good others had got. 'After all I have done for them,' said he, with a sigh of
bitterness, 'not one of them cares a straw for me. My own children will be glad when I am
gone!'At that instant he lifted up his eyes and saw, standing close by the door, a tiny figure
in a long night-gown. The door behind her was shut. It was my little friend, who had crept in
noiselessly. A pang of icy fear shot to the old man's heart, but it melted away as fast, for we
made a lane through us for a single ray from the fire to fall on the face of the little sprite; and
he thought it was a child of his own that had died when just the age of her child-niece, who
now stood looking for her grandfather among the Shadows. He thought she had come out of
her grave in the cold darkness to ask why her father was sitting alone on Christmas-day. And
he felt he had no answer to give his little ghost, but one he would be ashamed for her to hear.
But his grandchild saw him now, and walked up to him with a childish stateliness, stumbling
once or twice on what seemed her long shroud. Pushing through the crowded shadows, she
reached him, climbed upon his knee, laid her little long-haired head on his shoulders, and
said,'Ganpa! you goomy? Isn't it your Kissy-Day too, ganpa?'
"A new fount of love seemed to burst from the clay of the old man's heart. He clasped the
child to his bosom, and wept. Then, without a word, he rose with her in his arms, carried her
up to her room, and laying her down in her bed, covered her up, kissed her sweet little mouth
unconscious of reproof, and then went to the drawing-room.
"As soon as he entered, he saw the culprits in a quiet corner alone. He went up to them, took a
hand of each, and joining them in both his, said, 'God bless you!' Then he turned to the rest of
the company, and 'Now,' said he, 'let's have a Christmas carol.'And well he might; for
though I have paid many visits to the house, I have never seen him cross since; and I am sure
that must cost him a good deal of trouble."

22

"We have just come from a great palace," said another, "where we knew there were many
children, and where we thought to hear glad voices, and see royally merry looks. But as soon
as we entered, we became aware that one mighty Shadow shrouded the whole; and that
Shadow deepened and deepened, till it gathered in darkness about the reposing form of a wise
prince. When we saw him, we could move no more, but clung heavily to the walls, and by our
stillness added to the sorrow of the hour. And when we saw the mother of her people weeping
with bowed head for the loss of him in whom she had trusted, we were seized with such a
longing to be Shadows no more, but winged angels, which are the white shadows cast in
heaven from the Light of Light, so as to gather around her, and hover over her with
comforting, that we vanished from the walls, and found ourselves floating high above the
towers of the palace, where we met the angels on their way, and knew that our service was not
needed."
By this time there was a glimmer of approaching moonlight, and the king began to see several
of those stranger Shadows, with human faces and eyes, moving about amongst the crowd. He
knew at once that they did not belong to his dominion. They looked at him, and came near
him, and passed slowly, but they never made any obeisance, or gave sign of homage. And
what their eyes said to him, the king only could tell. And he did not tell.
"What are those other Shadows that move through the crowd?" said he to one of his subjects
near him.
The Shadow started, looked round, shivered slightly, and laid his finger on his lips. Then
leading the king a little aside, and looking carefully about him once more,
"I do not know," said he in a low tone, "what they are. I have heard of them often, but only
once did I ever see any of them before. That was when some of us one night paid a visit to a
man who sat much alone, and was said to think a great deal. We saw two of those sitting in
the room with him, and he was as pale as they were. We could not cross the threshold, but
shivered and shook, and felt ready to melt away. Is not your majesty afraid of them too?"
But the king made no answer; and before he could speak again, the moon had climbed above
the mighty pillars of the church of the Shadows, and looked in at the great window of the sky.
The shapes had all vanished; and the king, again lifting up his eyes, saw but the wall of his
own chamber, on which flickered the Shadow of a Little Child. He looked down, and there,
sitting on a stool by the fire, he saw one of his own little ones, waiting to say good-night to his
father, and go to bed early, that he might rise early too, and be very good and happy all
Christmas-day.
And Ralph Rinkelmann rejoiced that he was a man, and not a Shadow.
But as the Shadows vanished they left the sense of song in the king's brain. And the words of
their song must have been something like these:
"Shadows, Shadows, Shadows all!
Shadow birth and funeral!
Shadow moons gleam overhead;
Over shadow-graves we tread.
Shadow-hope lives, grows, and dies.

23

Shadow-love from shadow-eyes
Shadow-ward entices on
To shadow-words on shadow-stone,
Closing up the shadow-tale
With a shadow-shadow-wail.
"Shadow-man, thou art a gloom
Cast upon a shadow-tomb
Through the endless shadow air,
From the shadow sitting there,
On a moveless shadow-throne,
Glooming through the ages gone;
North and south, and in and out,
East and west, and all about,
Flinging Shadows everywhere
On the shadow-painted air
Shadow-man, thou hast no story;
Nothing but a shadow-glory."
But Ralph Rinkelmann said to himself,
"They are but Shadows that sing thus; for a Shadow can see but Shadows. A man sees a man
where a Shadow sees only a Shadow."
And he was comforted in himself.
THE END

"Dealing with Faeries" is George MacDonald's first and
most famous collection of fairytales.

This volume containes:
The Light Princess
The Giants Heart
The Shadows
Cross Purposes
The Golden Key

Pages 144
ISBN 9781409264590
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24

FROM BEYOND
By Howard Phillips Lovecraft
Horrible beyond conception was the change which had taken place in my best friend,
Crawford Tillinghast. I had not seen him since that day, two months and a half before, when
he told me toward what goal his physical and metaphysical researches were leading; when he
had answered my awed and almost frightened remonstrances by driving me from his
laboratory and his house in a burst of fanatical rage. I had known that he now remained
mostly shut in the attic laboratory with that accursed electrical machine, eating little and
excluding even the servants, but I had not thought that a brief period of ten weeks could so
alter and disfigure any human creature. It is not pleasant to see a stout man suddenly grown
thin, and it is even worse when the baggy skin becomes yellowed or grayed, the eyes sunken,
circled, and uncannily glowing, the forehead veined and corrugated, and the hands tremulous
and twitching. And if added to this there be a repellent unkemptness, a wild disorder of dress,
a bushiness of dark hair white at the roots, and an unchecked growth of white beard on a face
once clean-shaven, the cumulative effect is quite shocking. But such was the aspect of
Crawford Tilllinghast on the night his half coherent message brought me to his door after my
weeks of exile; such was the specter that trembled as it admitted me, candle in hand, and
glanced furtively over its shoulder as if fearful of unseen things in the ancient, lonely house
set back from Benevolent Street.
That Crawford Tillinghast should ever have studied science and philosophy was a mistake.
These things should be left to the frigid and impersonal investigator for they offer two equally
tragic alternatives to the man of feeling and action; despair, if he fail in his quest, and terrors
unutterable and unimaginable if he succeed. Tillinghast had once been the prey of failure,
solitary and melancholy; but now I knew, with nauseating fears of my own, that he was the
prey of success. I had indeed warned him ten weeks before, when he burst forth with his tale
of what he felt himself about to discover. He had been flushed and excited then, talking in a
high and unnatural, though always pedantic, voice.
"What do we know," he had said, "of the world and the universe about us? Our means of
receiving impressions are absurdly few, and our notions of surrounding objects infinitely
narrow. We see things only as we are constructed to see them, and can gain no idea of their
absolute nature. With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the boundlessly complex
cosmos, yet other beings with wider, stronger, or different range of senses might not only see
very differently the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of matter, energy,
and life which lie close at hand yet can never be detected with the senses we have. I have
always believed that such strange, inaccessible worlds exist at our very elbows, and now I
believe I have found a way to break down the barriers. I am not joking. Within twenty-four
hours that machine near the table will generate waves acting on unrecognized sense organs
that exist in us as atrophied or rudimentary vestiges. Those waves will open up to us many
vistas unknown to man and several unknown to anything we consider organic life. We shall
see that at which dogs howl in the dark, and that at which cats prick up their ears after
midnight. We shall see these things, and other things which no breathing creature has yet
seen. We shall overleap time, space, and dimensions, and without bodily motion peer to the
bottom of creation."
When Tillinghast said these things I remonstrated, for I knew him well enough to be
frightened rather than amused; but he was a fanatic, and drove me from the house. Now he
was no less a fanatic, but his desire to speak had conquered his resentment, and he had written

25

me imperatively in a hand I could scarcely recognize. As I entered the abode of the friend so
suddenly metamorphosed to a shivering gargoyle, I became infected with the terror which
seemed stalking in all the shadows. The words and beliefs expressed ten weeks before seemed
bodied forth in the darkness beyond the small circle of candle light, and I sickened at the
hollow, altered voice of my host. I wished the servants were about, and did not like it when he
said they had all left three days previously. It seemed strange that old Gregory, at least, should
desert his master without telling as tried a friend as I. It was he who had given me all the
information I had of Tillinghast after I was repulsed in rage.
Yet I soon subordinated all my fears to my growing curiosity and fascination. Just what
Crawford Tillinghast now wished of me I could only guess, but that he had some stupendous
secret or discovery to impart, I could not doubt. Before I had protested at his unnatural
pryings into the unthinkable; now that he had evidently succeeded to some degree I almost
shared his spirit, terrible though the cost of victory appeared. Up through the dark emptiness
of the house I followed the bobbing candle in the hand of this shaking parody of man. The
electricity seemed to be turned off, and when I asked my guide he said it was for a definite
reason.
"It would be too much... I would not dare," he continued to mutter. I especially noted his new
habit of muttering, for it was not like him to talk to himself. We entered the laboratory in the
attic, and I observed that detestable electrical machine, glowing with a sickly, sinister violet
luminosity. It was connected with a powerful chemical battery, but seemed to be receiving no
current; for I recalled that in its experimental stage it had sputtered and purred when in action.
In reply to my question Tillinghast mumbled that this permanent glow was not electrical in
any sense that I could understand.
He now seated me near the machine, so that it was on my right, and turned a switch
somewhere below the crowning cluster of glass bulbs. The usual sputtering began, turned to a
whine, and terminated in a drone so soft as to suggest a return to silence. Meanwhile the
luminosity increased, waned again, then assumed a pale, outr colour or blend of colours
which I could neither place nor describe. Tillinghast had been watching me, and noted my
puzzled expression.
"Do you know what that is?" he whispered, "That is ultra-violet." He chuckled oddly at my
surprise. "You thought ultra-violet was invisible, and so it is - but you can see that and many
other invisible things now.
"Listen to me! The waves from that thing are waking a thousand sleeping senses in us; senses
which we inherit from aeons of evolution from the state of detached electrons to the state of
organic humanity. I have seen the truth, and I intend to show it to you. Do you wonder how it
will seem? I will tell you." Here Tillinghast seated himself directly opposite me, blowing out
his candle and staring hideously into my eyes. "Your existing sense-organs - ears first, I think
- will pick up many of the impressions, for they are closely connected with the dormant
organs. Then there will be others. You have heard of the pineal gland? I laugh at the shallow
endocrinologist, fellow-dupe and fellow-parvenu of the Freudian. That gland is the great
sense organ of organs - I have found out. It is like sight in the end, and transmits visual
pictures to the brain. If you are normal, that is the way you ought to get most of it... I mean
get most of the evidence from beyond."

26

I looked about the immense attic room with the sloping south wall, dimly lit by rays which the
every day eye cannot see. The far corners were all shadows and the whole place took on a
hazy unreality which obscured its nature and invited the imagination to symbolism and
phantasm. During the interval that Tillinghast was long silent I fancied myself in some vast
incredible temple of long-dead gods; some vague edifice of innumerable black stone columns
reaching up from a floor of damp slabs to a cloudy height beyond the range of my vision. The
picture was very vivid for a while, but gradually gave way to a more horrible conception; that
of utter, absolute solitude in infinite, sightless, soundless space. There seemed to be a void,
and nothing more, and I felt a childish fear which prompted me to draw from my hip pocket
the revolver I carried after dark since the night I was held up in East Providence. Then from
the farthermost regions of remoteness, the sound softly glided into existence. It was infinitely
faint, subtly vibrant, and unmistakably musical, but held a quality of surpassing wildness
which made its impact feel like a delicate torture of my whole body. I felt sensations like
those one feels when accidentally scratching ground glass. Simultaneously there developed
something like a cold draught, which apparently swept past me from the direction of the
distant sound. As I waited breathlessly I perceived that both sound and wind were increasing;
the effect being to give me an odd notion of myself as tied to a pair of rails in the path of a
gigantic approaching locomotive. I began to speak to Tillinghast, and as I did so all the
unusual impressions abruptly vanished. I saw only the man, the glowing machines, and the
dim apartment. Tillinghast was grinning repulsively at the revolver which I had almost
unconsciously drawn, but from his expression I was sure he had seen and heard as much as I,
if not a great deal more. I whispered what I had experienced and he bade me to remain as
quiet and receptive as possible.
"Don't move," he cautioned, "for in these rays we are able to be seen as well as to see. I told
you the servants left, but I didn't tell you how. It was that thick-witted house-keeper - she
turned on the lights downstairs after I had warned her not to, and the wires picked up
sympathetic vibrations. It must have been frightful - I could hear the screams up here in spite
of all I was seeing and hearing from another direction, and later it was rather awful to find
those empty heaps of clothes around the house. Mrs. Updike's clothes were close to the front
hall switch - that's how I know she did it. It got them all. But so long as we don't move we're
fairly safe. Remember we're dealing with a hideous world in which we are practically
helpless... Keep still!"
The combined shock of the revelation and of the abrupt command gave me a kind of
paralysis, and in my terror my mind again opened to the impressions coming from what
Tillinghast called "beyond." I was now in a vortex of sound and motion, with confused
pictures before my eyes. I saw the blurred outlines of the room, but from some point in space
there seemed to be pouring a seething column of unrecognizable shapes or clouds, penetrating
the solid roof at a point ahead and to the right of me. Then I glimpsed the temple - like effect
again, but this time the pillars reached up into an aerial ocean of light, which sent down one
blinding beam along the path of the cloudy column I had seen before. After that the scene was
almost wholly kaleidoscopic, and in the jumble of sights, sounds, and unidentified sense-
impressions I felt that I was about to dissolve or in some way lose the solid form. One definite
flash I shall always remember. I seemed for an instant to behold a patch of strange night sky
filled with shining, revolving spheres, and as it receded I saw that the glowing suns formed a
constellation or galaxy of settled shape; this shape being the distorted face of Crawford
Tillinghast. At another time I felt the huge animate things brushing past me and occasionally
walking or drifting through my supposedly solid body, and thought I saw Tillinghast look at

27

them as though his better trained senses could catch them visually. I recalled what he had said
of the pineal gland, and wondered what he saw with this preternatural eye.
Suddenly I myself became possessed of a kind of augmented sight. Over and above the
luminous and shadowy chaos arose a picture which, though vague, held the elements of
consistency and permanence. It was indeed somewhat familiar, for the unusual part was
superimposed upon the usual terrestrial scene much as a cinema view may be thrown upon the
painted curtain of a theater. I saw the attic laboratory, the electrical machine, and the
unsightly form of Tillinghast opposite me; but of all the space unoccupied by familiar objects
not one particle was vacant. Indescribable shapes both alive and otherwise were mixed in
disgusting disarray, and close to every known thing were whole worlds of alien, unknown
entities. It likewise seemed that all the known things entered into the composition of other
unknown things and vice versa. Foremost among the living objects were inky, jellyfish
monstrosities which flabbily quivered in harmony with the vibrations from the machine. They
were present in loathsome profusion, and I saw to my horror that they overlapped; that they
were semi-fluid and capable of passing through one another and through what we know as
solids. These things were never still, but seemed ever floating about with some malignant
purpose. Sometimes they appeared to devour one another, the attacker launching itself at its
victim and instantaneously obliterating the latter from sight. Shudderingly I felt that I knew
what had obliterated the unfortunate servants, and could not exclude the thing from my mind
as I strove to observe other properties of the newly visible world that lies unseen around us.
But Tillinghast had been watching me and was speaking.
"You see them? You see them? You see the things that float and flop about you and through
you every moment of your life? You see the creatures that form what men call the pure air
and the blue sky? Have I not succeeded in breaking down the barrier; have I not shown you
worlds that no other living men have seen?" I heard his scream through the horrible chaos,
and looked at the wild face thrust so offensively close to mine. His eyes were pits of flame,
and they glared at me with what I now saw was overwhelming hatred. The machine droned
detestably.
"You think those floundering things wiped out the servants? Fool, they are harmless! But the
servants are gone, aren't they? You tried to stop me; you discouraged me when I needed every
drop of encouragement I could get; you were afraid of the cosmic truth, you damned coward,
but now I've got you! What swept up the servants? What made them scream so loud?... Don't
know, eh! You'll know soon enough. Look at me - listen to what I say - do you suppose there
are really any such things as time and magnitude? Do you fancy there are such things as form
or matter? I tell you, I have struck depths that your little brain can't picture. I have seen
beyond the bounds of infinity and drawn down demons from the stars... I have harnessed the
shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness... Space belongs to me, do
you hear? Things are hunting me now - the things that devour and dissolve - but I know how
to elude them. It is you they will get, as they got the servants... Stirring, dear sir? I told you it
was dangerous to move, I have saved you so far by telling you to keep still - saved you to see
more sights and to listen to me. If you had moved, they would have been at you long ago.
Don't worry, they won't hurt you. They didn't hurt the servants - it was the seeing that made
the poor devils scream so. My pets are not pretty, for they come out of places where aesthetic
standards are - very different. Disintegration is quite painless, I assure you -- but I want you to
see them. I almost saw them, but I knew how to stop. You are curious? I always knew you
were no scientist. Trembling, eh. Trembling with anxiety to see the ultimate things I have

28

discovered. Why don't you move, then? Tired? Well, don't worry, my friend, for they are
coming... Look, look, curse you, look... it's just over your left shoulder..."
What remains to be told is very brief, and may be familiar to you from the newspaper
accounts. The police heard a shot in the old Tillinghast house and found us there - Tillinghast
dead and me unconscious. They arrested me because the revolver was in my hand, but
released me in three hours, after they found it was apoplexy which had finished Tillinghast
and saw that my shot had been directed at the noxious machine which now lay hopelessly
shattered on the laboratory floor. I did not tell very much of what I had seen, for I feared the
coroner would be skeptical; but from the evasive outline I did give, the doctor told me that I
had undoubtedly been hypnotized by the vindictive and homicidal madman.
I wish I could believe that doctor. It would help my shaky nerves if I could dismiss what I
now have to think of the air and the sky about and above me. I never feel alone or
comfortable, and a hideous sense of pursuit sometimes comes chillingly on me when I am
weary. What prevents me from believing the doctor is one simple fact - that the police never
found the bodies of those servants whom they say Crawford Tillinghast murdered.
THE END

H P Lovecraft - The Complete Fiction
Collection Vol I III
Three volumes containing the complete fiction
collection of the great HP Lovecraft, the master
of horror. The serie contains 83 fiction stories
(including some rare juvenile stories), one
sonnet and two essays.


Vol I - 608 pages
ISBN 9781409218838
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Vol II - 580 pages
ISBN 9781409231530
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Vol III - 564 pages
ISBN 9781300414278
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29

The Mysteroius Death of Edgar Allan Poe

The death of Edgar Allan Poe on October 7, 1849, has remained mysterious: the
circumstances leading up to it are uncertain and the cause of death is disputed. On October 3,
Poe was found delirious on the streets of Baltimore, Maryland, "in great distress, and ... in
need of immediate assistance", according to the man who found him, Joseph W. Walker. He
was taken to the Washington College Hospital, where he died at 5 a.m. on Sunday, October 7.
Poe was never coherent enough to explain how he came to be in this condition.
Much of the extant information about the last few days of Poe's life comes from his attending
physician, Dr. John Joseph Moran, though his credibility is questionable. Poe was buried after
a small funeral at the back of Westminster Hall and Burying Ground, but his remains were
moved to a new grave with a larger monument in 1875. The newer monument also marks the
burial place of Poe's wife, Virginia, and his mother-in-law, Maria. Theories as to what caused
Poe's death include suicide, murder, cholera, rabies, syphilis, influenza, and that Poe was a
victim of cooping. Evidence of the influence of alcohol is strongly disputed.
After Poe's death, Rufus Wilmot Griswold wrote his obituary under the pseudonym
"Ludwig". Griswold, who became the literary executor of Poe's estate, was actually a rival of
Poe and later published his first full biography, depicting him as a depraved, drunk, drug-
addled madman. Much of the evidence for this image of Poe is believed to have been forged
by Griswold, and though friends of Poe denounced it, this interpretation had lasting impact.
Chronology
In September 27, 1849, Poe left Richmond, Virginia, on his way home to New York. No
reliable evidence exists about Poe's whereabouts until a week later on October 3, when he was
found delirious on the streets of Baltimore, outside Ryan's Tavern (sometimes referred to as
Gunner's Hall).

A printer named Joseph W. Walker sent a letter requesting help from an
acquaintance of Poe, Dr. Joseph E. Snodgrass. His letter reads:
Dear SirThere is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan's 4th ward polls,
who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress, &
he says he is acquainted with you, and I assure you, he is in need of immediate
assistance. Yours, in haste, Jos. W. Walker
Snodgrass later claimed the note said that Poe was "in a state of beastly intoxication", but the
original letter proves otherwise.
Snodgrass's first-hand account describes Poe's appearance as "repulsive", with unkempt hair,
a haggard, unwashed face and "lusterless and vacant" eyes. His clothing, Snodgrass said,
which included a dirty shirt but no vest and unpolished shoes, was worn and did not fit well.
Dr. John Joseph Moran, who was Poe's attending physician, gives his own detailed account of
Poe's appearance that day: "a stained faded, old bombazine coat, pantaloons of a similar
character, a pair of worn-out shoes run down at the heels, and an old straw hat". Poe was
never coherent long enough to explain how he came to be in this condition, and it is believed
the clothes he was wearing were not his own, not least because wearing shabby clothes was
out of character for Poe.

30

Moran cared for Poe at the for-profit Washington College Hospital on Broadway and Fayette
Street. He was denied any visitors and was confined in a prison-like room with barred
windows in a section of the building reserved for drunk people. Poe is said to have repeatedly
called out the name "Reynolds" on the night before his death, though no one has ever been
able to identify the person to whom he referred. One possibility is that he was recalling an
encounter with Jeremiah N. Reynolds, a newspaper editor and explorer who may have
inspired the novel The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. Another possibility is
Henry R. Reynolds, one of the judges overseeing the Fourth Ward Polls at Ryan's Tavern,
who may have met Poe on Election Day. Poe may have instead been calling for "Herring", as
the author had an uncle-in-law in Baltimore named Henry Herring. In fact, in later testimonies
Moran avoided reference to Reynolds but mentioned a visit by a "Misses Herring". He also
claimed he attempted to cheer Poe up during one of the few times Poe was awake. When
Moran told his patient that he would soon be enjoying the company of friends, Poe allegedly
replied that "the best thing his friend could do would be to blow out his brains with a pistol".
In Poe's distressed state, he made reference to a wife in Richmond. He may have been
delusional, thinking that his wife, Virginia, was still alive, or he may have been referring to
Sarah Elmira Royster, to whom he had recently proposed. He did not know what had
happened to his trunk of belongings which, it transpired, had been left behind at the Swan
Tavern in Richmond. Moran reported that Poe's final words were "Lord, help my poor soul"
before dying on October 7, 1849.
Credibility of Moran
Because Poe did not have visitors, Moran was probably the only person to see the author in
his last days. Even so, Moran's credibility has been questioned repeatedly, if not considered
altogether untrustworthy. Throughout the years after Poe's death, his story changed as he
wrote and lectured on the topic. He claimed (in 1875 and again in 1885, for example) that he
had immediately contacted Poe's aunt (and mother-in-law), Maria Clemm, to let her know
about Poe's death; in fact, he wrote to her only after she had requested it on November 9,
almost a full month after the event. He also claimed that Poe had said, quite poetically, as he
prepared to draw his last breath: "The arched heavens encompass me, and God has his decree
legibly written upon the frontlets of every created human being, and demons incarnate, their
goal will be the seething waves of blank despair." The editor of the New York Herald, which
published this version of Moran's story, admitted, "We cannot imagine Poe, even if delirious,
constructing [such sentences]." Poe biographer William Bittner attributes Moran's claim to a
convention of assigning pious last words to console mourners.
Moran's accounts even altered dates. At different points, he claimed Poe was brought to the
hospital on October 3 at 5 p.m., on October 6 at 9 a.m., or on October 7 (the day he died) at
"10 o'clock in the afternoon". For each published account, he claimed to have the hospital
records as reference. A search for hospital records a century later, specifically an official
death certificate, found nothing. Some critics claim Moran's inconsistencies and errors were
due only to a lapse of memory, an innocent desire to romanticize, or even to senility. At the
time he wrote and published his last account in 1885, Moran was 65.
Cause of death
All medical records and documents, including Poe's death certificate, have been lost, if they
ever existed. The precise cause of Poe's death is disputed, but many theories exist. Many

31

biographers have addressed the issue and reached different conclusions, ranging from Jeffrey
Meyers' assertion that it was hypoglycemia to John Evangelist Walsh's conspiratorial murder
plot theory. It has also been suggested that Poe's death might have resulted from suicide
related to depression. In 1848, he nearly died from an overdose of laudanum, readily available
as a tranquilizer and pain killer. Though it is unclear if this was a true suicide attempt or just a
miscalculation on Poe's part, it did not lead to Poe's death a year later.
Snodgrass was convinced that Poe died from alcoholism and did a great deal to popularize
this idea. He was a supporter of the temperance movement and found Poe a useful example in
his temperance work. However, Snodgrass's writings on the topic have been proven
untrustworthy. Moran contradicted Snodgrass by stating in his own 1885 account that Poe did
not die under the effect of any intoxicant. Moran claimed that Poe "had not the slightest odor
of liquor upon his breath or person". Even so, some newspapers at the time reported Poe's
death as "congestion of the brain" or "cerebral inflammation", euphemisms for deaths from
disgraceful causes such as alcoholism. In a study of Poe, a psychologist suggested that Poe
had dipsomania.
However, Poe's characterization as an uncontrollable alcoholic is disputed. His drinking
companion for a time, Thomas Mayne Reid, admitted that the two engaged in wild "frolics"
but that Poe "never went beyond the innocent mirth in which we all indulge... While
acknowledging this as one of Poe's failings, I can speak truly of its not being habitual".

Some
believe Poe had a severe susceptibility to alcohol and became drunk after one glass of wine.
He only drank during difficult periods of his life and sometimes went several months at a time
without alcohol. Adding further confusion about the frequency of Poe's use of alcohol was his
membership in the Sons of Temperance at the time of his death. William Glenn, who
administered Poe's pledge, wrote years later that the temperance community had no reason to
believe Poe had violated his pledge while in Richmond. Suggestions of a drug overdose have
also been proven to be untrue, though it is still often reported. Thomas Dunn English, an
admitted enemy of Poe and a trained doctor, insisted that Poe was not a drug user. He wrote:
"Had Poe the opium habit when I knew him (before 1846) I should both as a physician and a
man of observation, have discovered it during his frequent visits to my rooms, my visits at his
house, and our meetings elsewhere I saw no signs of it and believe the charge to be a
baseless slander."
Numerous other causes of death have been proposed over the years, including several forms
of rare brain disease or a brain tumor, diabetes, various types of enzyme deficiency, syphilis,
apoplexy, delirium tremens, epilepsy and meningeal inflammation. A doctor named John W.
Francis examined Poe in May 1848 and believed Poe had heart disease, which Poe later
denied. A 2006 test of a sample of Poe's hair provides evidence against the possibility of lead
poisoning, mercury poisoning, and similar toxic heavy-metal exposures. Cholera has also
been suggested. Poe had passed through Philadelphia in early 1849 during a cholera epidemic.
He got sick during his time in the city and wrote a letter to his aunt, Maria Clemm, saying that
he may "have had the cholera, or spasms quite as bad".
Because Poe was found on the day of an election, it was suggested as early as 1872 that he
was the victim of cooping. This was a ballot-box-stuffing scam in which victims were
shanghaied, drugged, and used as a pawn to vote for a political party at multiple locations.
Cooping had become the standard explanation for Poe's death in most of his biographies for
several decades, though his status in Baltimore may have made him too recognizable for this

32

scam to have worked. More recently, analysis suggesting that Poe's death resulted from rabies
has been presented.
Funeral
Poe's funeral was a simple one, held at 4 p.m. on Monday, October 8, 1849. Few people
attended the ceremony. Poe's uncle, Henry Herring, provided a simple mahogany coffin, and a
cousin, Neilson Poe, supplied the hearse. Moran's wife made his shroud. The funeral was
presided over by the Reverend W. T. D. Clemm, cousin of Poe's wife, Virginia. Also in
attendance were Dr. Snodgrass, Baltimore lawyer and former University of Virginia classmate
Zaccheus Collins Lee, Poe's first cousin Elizabeth Herring and her husband, and former
schoolmaster Joseph Clarke. The entire ceremony lasted only three minutes in the cold, damp
weather. Reverend Clemm decided not to bother with a sermon because the crowd was too
small. Sexton George W. Spence wrote of the weather: "It was a dark and gloomy day, not
raining but just kind of raw and threatening." Poe was buried in a cheap coffin that lacked
handles, a nameplate, cloth lining, or a cushion for his head.
On October 10, 2009, Poe received a second funeral in Baltimore. Actors portrayed Poe's
contemporaries and other long-dead writers and artists. Each paid their respects and read
eulogies adapted from their writings about Poe. The funeral included a replica of Poe's casket
and wax cadaver.
Burial and reburial
Poe is buried on the grounds of Westminster Hall and Burying Ground, now part of the
University of Maryland School of Law in Baltimore. Even after his death, however, he
created controversy and mystery.
Poe was originally buried without a headstone towards the rear corner of the churchyard near
his grandfather, David Poe, Sr. A headstone of white Italian marble, paid for by Poe's cousin
Neilson Poe, was destroyed before it reached the grave when a train derailed and plowed
through the monument yard where it was being kept. Instead, it was marked with a sand-stone
block that read "No. 80". In 1873, Southern poet Paul Hamilton Hayne visited Poe's grave and
published a newspaper article describing its poor condition and suggesting a more appropriate
monument. Sara Sigourney Rice, a teacher in Baltimore's public schools, took advantage of
renewed interest in Poe's grave site and personally solicited for funds. She even had some of
her elocution students give public performances to raise money. Many in Baltimore and
throughout the United States contributed; the final $650 came from Philadelphia publisher
and philanthropist George William Childs. The new monument was designed by architect
George A. Frederick and built by Colonel Hugh Sisson, and included a medallion of Poe by
artist Adalbert Volck. All three men were from Baltimore. The total cost of the monument,
with the medallion, amounted to slightly more than $1,500.
Poe was reburied on October 1, 1875, at a new location close to the front of the church. A
celebration was held at the dedication of the new tomb on November 17. His original burial
spot was marked with a large stone donated by Orin C. Painter, though it was originally
placed in the wrong spot. Attendees included Neilson Poe, who gave a speech and called his
cousin "one of the best hearted men that ever lived", as well as Nathan C. Brooks, John
Snodgrass, and John Hill Hewitt. Though several leading poets were invited to the ceremony,

33

Walt Whitman was the only one to attend. Alfred Tennyson contributed a poem which was
read at the ceremony:
Fate that once denied him,
And envy that once decried him,
And malice that belied him,
Now cenotaph his fame.
Probably unknown to the reburial crew, the headstones on all the graves, previously facing to
the east, had been turned to face the West Gate in 1864. The crew digging up Poe's remains
had difficulty finding the right body: they first exhumed a 19-year old Maryland militiaman,
Philip Mosher, Jr. When they correctly located Poe, they opened his coffin and one witness
noted: "The skull was in excellent conditionthe shape of the forehead, one of Poe's striking
features, was easily discerned."
A few years later, the remains of Poe's wife, Virginia, were moved to this spot as well. In
1875, the cemetery in which she lay was destroyed, and she had no kin to claim her remains.
William Gill, an early Poe biographer, gathered her bones and stored them in a box he hid
under his bed. Virginia's remains were finally buried with her husband's on January 19, 1885,
the 76th anniversary of her husband's birth and nearly 10 years after his present monument
was erected. George W. Spence, the man who served as sexton during Poe's original burial as
well as his exhumation and reburial, attended the rites that brought his body to rest with
Virginia and Virginia's mother, Maria Clemm.
Posthumous character assassination
On October 9, the day of Poe's burial, an obituary appeared in the "New York Tribune".
Signed only "Ludwig", the obituary floridly alternated between praising the dead author's
abilities and eloquence and damning his temperament and ambition. "Ludwig" said that
"literary art lost one of its most brilliant, but erratic stars" but also claimed Poe was known for
walking the streets in delirium, muttering to himself and claimed Poe was excessively
arrogant, that he assumed all men were villains, and that he was quick to anger. "Ludwig" was
later revealed to be Rufus Wilmot Griswold, a former colleague and acquaintance of Poe.
Even while Poe was still alive, Griswold had engaged in character assassination. Much of his
characterization in the obituary was lifted almost verbatim from that of the fictitious Francis
Vivian in The Caxtons by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The Ludwig obituary quickly became the
standard characterization of Poe.
Griswold also claimed that Poe had asked him to be his literary executor. Griswold had served
as an agent for several American authors, but it is unclear whether Poe appointed him to be
the executor or whether Griswold became executor through a trick or a mistake by Poe's aunt
and mother-in-law, Maria. In any event, in 1850 he presented, in collaboration with James
Russell Lowell and Nathaniel Parker Willis, a collection of Poe's work that included a
biographical article titled "Memoir of the Author", in which Poe was depicted as a depraved,
drunk, drug-addled madman. Many parts of it were believed to have been fabricated by
Griswold, and it was denounced by those who had known Poe, including Sarah Helen
Whitman, Charles Frederick Briggs, and George Rex Graham. However, this account became
popularly accepted, in part because it was the only full biography available and was widely
reprinted. It also remained popular because many readers assumed that Poe was similar to his
fictional characters or were thrilled at the thought of reading the works of an "evil" man.

34

A more accurate biography of Poe did not appear until John Henry Ingram's of 1875. Even so,
historians continued to use Griswold's depiction as a model for their own biographies of Poe,
including W. H. Davenport in 1880, Thomas R. Slicer in 1909, and Augustus Hopkins Strong
in 1916. Many used Poe as a cautionary tale against alcohol and drugs. In 1941, Arthur
Hobson Quinn presented evidence that Griswold had forged and re-written a number of Poe's
letters that were included in his "Memoir of the Author". By then, Griswold's depiction of Poe
was entrenched in the mind of the public, not only in America but around the world, and this
distorted image of Poe has become part of the Poe legend despite attempts to dispel it.
Poe Toaster
The Poe Toaster is an unofficial nickname given to a mysterious person (or more probably
two persons in succession, possibly father and son) who, for over seven decades, paid an
annual tribute to American author Edgar Allan Poe by visiting the cenotaph marking his
original grave in Baltimore, Maryland in the early hours of January 19, Poe's birthday. The
shadowy figure, dressed in black with a wide-brimmed hat and white scarf, would pour
himself a glass of cognac and raise a toast to Poe's memory, then vanish into the night,
leaving three roses in a distinctive arrangement and the unfinished bottle of cognac.
Onlookers gathered annually in hopes of glimpsing the elusive Toaster, who did not seek
publicity and was rarely seen or photographed.
According to eyewitness reports and notes accompanying offerings in later years, the original
Toaster made the annual visitation from sometime in the 1930s (though no report appeared in
print until 1950) until his death in 1998, after which the tradition was passed to "a son".

Controversial statements were made in some notes left by the post-1998 Toaster, and in 2006
an unsuccessful attempt was made by several onlookers to detain and identify him. In 2010
there was no visit by the Toaster, nor has he appeared any year since, triggering speculation
that the 75-year tradition has ended.
Origins
Poe died at the age of 40 in Baltimore on October 7, 1849 under mysterious circumstances.
The Poe Toaster tradition may have begun as early as the 1930s, according to witnesses, and
continued annually until 2009. Each year, in the early hours of the morning of January 19 a
black-clad figure (presumed male), face obscured by a scarf or hood, carrying a silver-tipped
cane, would enter the Westminster Hall and Burying Ground in Baltimore. At the site of Poe's
original grave, which is marked with a commemorative stone, he would raise a cognac toast
and place three red roses on the monument in a distinctive configuration, along with the
unfinished bottle of Martell cognac. The roses were believed to represent Poe, his wife
Virginia, and his mother-in-law Maria Clemm, all three of whom were originally interred at
the site. The significance of the cognac is uncertain, as it does not feature in Poes works (as
would, for example, amontillado); but a note left at the 2004 visitation suggested that the
cognac may have represented a tradition of the Toaster's family rather than Poe's. Several of
the cognac bottles are kept at the Edgar Allan Poe House and Museum in Baltimore, although
the museum has been closed to the public since late 2012.
A group of varying size composed of reporters and Poe enthusiasts observed the event each
year. A photograph, reputedly of the Toaster, was published by Life Magazine in 1990.


35

The notes
On several occasions, the Toaster left a note along with the roses and cognac. Some notes
were simple expressions of devotion, such as "Edgar, I haven't forgotten you." In 1993, a
cryptic message stated, "The torch will be passed." In 1999, a note announced that the original
Toaster had died the previous year and had passed the tradition to "a son." Subsequent
eyewitnesses noted that the post-1998 Toaster appeared to be a younger individual.
A note left at the 2001 visitation, which happened to occur a few days before Super Bowl
XXXV between the Baltimore Ravens and the New York Giants, spurred controversy in
Baltimore: "The New York Giants. Darkness and decay and the big blue hold dominion over
all. The Baltimore Ravens. A thousand injuries they will suffer. Edgar Allan Poe evermore."
Never before had the Toaster commented on sports or other current events, nor could anyone
explain the negative reference to Baltimore's football team, whose nickname was inspired by
"The Raven," Poe's most famous poem. The prophecy, a play on the last line of "The Masque
of the Red Death" ("And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion
over all"), proved inaccurate, as Baltimore won the game 347.
The Toaster's 2004 note was apparently critical of France's opposition to the war in Iraq: "The
sacred memory of Poe and his final resting place is no place for French cognac. With great
reluctance but for [sic] respect for family tradition the cognac is placed. The memory of Poe
shall live evermore!"
Jeff Jerome, former curator of the Poe House and Museum, has suggested that the 2001 and
2004 notes may have reflected an unwillingness of the son (or sons) to take the tradition as
seriously as had the father. A final noteleft sometime between 2005 and 2008was so
dismaying, Jerome said, that he decided to fib and announce that no note had been left. He
declined to reveal its contents, other than that it was a hint, in hindsight, that an end to the
tradition was imminent.
Events leading up to Poe's bicentenary
In 2006 a group of onlookers unsuccessfully attempted to intercept the Poe Toaster. Aside
from that incident, spectators, out of respect for the tradition (and, perhaps, the mystery),
never interfered with the Toaster's entry, tribute ritual, or departure, nor was any concerted
effort made to identify the individual.
In 2007 a 92-year-old man named Sam Porpora claimed that he had started the Poe Toaster
tradition. A former historian for Baltimore's Westminster Church, Porpora claimed that he
invented the Toaster in the 1960s as a "publicity stunt", to reinvigorate the church and its
congregation, and had falsely told a reporter at the time that it had begun in 1949.

However,
reports of the annual visits date from well before the 1960s, for example a 1950 article in The
(Baltimore) Evening Sun that mentions "an anonymous citizen who creeps in annually to
place an empty bottle (of excellent label) against the gravestone."
Porpora's daughter said she had never heard of her father's actions but that it fit in with his
mischievous nature; but Jeff Jerome pointed out that the details of Porpora's story seemed to
change with each telling. "There are holes so big in Sam's story, you could drive a Mack truck
through them," he said. Jeff Savoye of the Edgar Allan Poe Society also questioned Porpora's
claims, but admitted he could not definitively prove or disprove them. While never retracting

36

his claim, Porpora later acknowledged that it was not he making the annual visits; that
someone else (he knew not who) had made the tradition his own.
In 2008 Jerome reported that nearly 150 gathered to observe the Toaster's appearance. 2009
marked the bicentenary of Poe's birth; despite this milestone, the crowd was smaller than in
past years, and the Toaster left no note.
Possible end to the tradition
In 2010 the Poe Toaster failed to appear. Jerome, who had witnessed every visitation from
1976 on, had no explanation, but did speculate that if the Toaster intended to end the tradition,
the 2009 bicentennial would mark a logical ending point.
The 2011 anniversary saw only the appearance of four impostorsimmediately dubbed "faux
Toasters"identified as such because all four walked in clear sight of waiting observers
(contrary to the real Toaster's secretive nature); none gave the secret signal that only Jerome
knows, a gesture the Toaster predictably made each year at the grave; and none arranged the
roses in the unique pattern established by the Toaster. The faux Toasters' appearance sparked
controversy: While some preferred that the tradition die a "dignified death", others urged that
it be carried on, by imitators if necessary. In 2012, once again, there was no appearance by
anyone identifiable as the "original" Toaster. Jerome (who has denied rumors that he himself
was the Toaster) proclaimed the tradition "over with."
In popular culture
The Poe Toaster has appeared as a character in books, occult documentaries, and other media.
The 2001 novel, In a Strange City, by Baltimore crime fiction novelist Laura Lippman
features dueling Poe Toasters, one killing the other, during a tragically failed "Poe Toasting"
at Westminster Hall and Burial Grounds. The Poe Toaster is the subject of numerous non-
fiction occult treatises. More recently, the 2011 audio play The Poe Toaster Not Cometh, by
Washington Audio Theater seeks to explain the Poe Toaster mystery by suggesting the Poe
Toaster is in fact a contemporary of Poe's, surviving through the centuries via occult means.

To the top

37

THE STORY OF SEVENS HALL
A Flaxman Low, Occult Psychologist, Story
By E & H Hernon
"It may be quite true, said Yarkindale gloomily; all that I can answer is that we always die
the same way. Some of us choose, or are driven, to one form of suicide, and some to another,
but the result is alike. For three generations every man of my family has died by his own
hand. I have not come to you hoping for help, Mr. Low, I merely want to tell the facts to a
man who may possibly believe that we are not insane, that heredity and madness have nothing
to do with our leaving the world; but that we are forced out of it by some external power
acting upon us, I do not know how. If we inherit anything it is clear-headedness and strength
of will, but this curse of ours is stronger. That is all.
Flaxman Low kicked the fire into a blaze. It shown on the silver and china of the breakfast
service, and on the sallow, despairing face of the man in the arm-chair opposite. He was still
young, but already the cloud that rested upon his life had carved deep lines upon his forehead
in addition to the long tell-tale groove from mouth to nostril.
I conclude death does not occur without some premonition. Tell me something more. What
precedes death? inquired Flaxman Low.
A regular and well-marked series of eventsI insist upon calling them events, replied
Yarkindale. This is not a disease with a series of symptoms. Whatever it is it comes from the
outside. First we fall into an indescribable depression, causeless except as being the beginning
of the end, for we are all healthy men, fairly rich, and even lucky in the other affairs of life
and of love. Next comes the ghost or apparition or whatever you like to call it. Lastly we die
by our own hands. Yarkindale brought down a sinewy brown hand upon the arm of his chair.
And because we have been powers in the land, and there must be as little scandal as possible,
the doctors and the coroners jury bring it in Temporary insanity.
How long does this depression last before the end? Flaxman Lows voice broke in upon the
others moody thinking.
That varies, but the conclusion never. I am the last of the lot, and though I am full of life and
health and resolve today. I dont give myself a week to live. It is ghastly! To kill oneself is
bad enough, but to know that one is being driven to do it, to know that no power on earth can
save us, is an outlook of which words cant give the colour.
But you have not yet seen the apparitionwhich is the second stage.
It will come to-day or to-morrowas soon as I go back to Sevens Hall. I have watched two
others of my family go through the same mill. This irresistible depression always comes first.
I tell you, in two weeks I shall be dead. And the thought is maddening me!
I have a wife and child, he went on after an interval; and to think of the poor little beggar
growing up only to suffer this!
Where are they? asked Low.

38

I left them in Florence. I hope the truth can be kept from my wife; but that also is too much
to hope. Another suicide at Sevens Hall. I can see the headlines. Those rags of newspapers
would sell their mothers for half-a-crown!
Then the other deaths took place at Sevens Hall?
All of them. He stopped and looked hard at Mr. Low.
Tell me about your brothers, said Low.
Yarkindale burst into laughter.
Well done, Mr. Low! Why didnt you advise me not to go back to Sevens Hall? That is the
admirable counsel which the two brain specialists, whom I have seen since I came up to town,
have given me. Go back to the Hall? Of course I shouldntif I could help it. Thats the
difficultyI cant help it! I must go. They thought me mad!
I hardly wonder, said Low calmly, if you exhibited the same excitement. Now, hear me. If,
as you wish me to suppose, you are fighting against supernatural powers, the very first point
is to keep a firm and calm control of your feelings and thoughts. It is possible that you and I
together may be able to meet this trouble of yours in some new and possibly successful way.
Tell me all you can remember with regard to the deaths of your brothers.
You are right, said Yarkindale sadly enough. I am behaving like a maniac, and yet Im
sane, Heaven knows!To begin with, there were three of us, and we made up our minds long
ago when we were kids to see each other through to the last, and we determined not to yield to
the influence without a good fight for it. Five years ago my eldest brother went to Somaliland
on a shooting trip. He was big, vigorous, self-willed man, and I was not anxious about him.
My second brother, Jack, was an R.E., a clever, sensitive, quiet fellow, more likely to be
affected by the tradition of the family. While he was out in Gib., Vane suddenly returned from
Africa. I found him changed. He had become gloomy and abstracted, and kept saying that the
curse was coming upon him. He insisted upon going down to Sevens Hall. I was savage with
him. I thought he should have resisted the inclination; I know more about it now. One night he
rushed into my bedroom, crying out: Hes come; hes come!
Did he ever describe what he had seen? asked Low.
Never. None of us know definitely what shape the cursed thing takes. No one of us has ever
seen it; or, at any rate, in time to describe it. But once it comesand this is the horrible part
it never leaves us. Step by step it dogs us, till-- Yarkindale stopped, and in a minute or two
resumed. For two nights I sat up with him. He said very little, for Vane never talked much;
but I saw the agony in his face, the fear, the loathing, the growing horrorhe, who I believe,
had never before feared anything in his life.
The third night I fell asleep. I was worn out, though I dont offer that as an excuse. I am a
light sleeper, yet while I slept Vane killed himself within six feet of me! At the inquest it was
proved he had bought a silken waist-rope at Cairo, and it was contended that he must have
concealed it from me, as I had never seen it. I found him with his head nearly twisted off, and
a red rubbed weal across his face. He was lying in a heap upon the floor, for the rope was
frayed and broken by his struggles. The theory was that he had hanged himself, and then

39

repented of it, and in his efforts to get free had wrenched his head around, and scarred his
face.
Yarkindale stopped and shuddered violently.
I tried to hush the matter up as well as I could, but of course the news of it reached Jack.
Then a couple of years passed, and he went from Gib. to India, and wrote in splendid spirits,
for he had met a girl he liked out there, and he had told me that there was never so happy a
man on earth before. So you can fancy how I felt when I had a wire from the Hall imploring
me to go down at once for Jack had arrived. It is very hard to tell you what he suffered.
Yarkindale broke off and wiped his forehead. For I have been through it all within the last
two weeks myself. He cared for that girl beyond anything on earth; yet within a couple of
days of their marriage, he had felt himself impelled to rush home to England without so much
as bidding her good-bye, though he knew that at the end of his journey death was waiting for
him. We talked it over rationally, Mr. Low, and we determined to combine against the power,
whatever it was, that was driving him out of the world. We are not monomaniacs. We want to
live; we have all that makes life worth living; and yet I am going the same way, and not any
effort or desire or resolution on my part can save me!
It is a pity you make up your mind to that, said Flaxman Low. One will pitted against
another will has at least a chance of success. And a second point I beg you will bear in mind.
Good is always inherently stronger than evil. If, for instance, health were not, broadly
speaking, stronger than disease, the poisonous germs floating about the world would kill off
the human race inside twelve months.
Yes, said Yarkindale; but where two of us failed before, it is not likely that I alone will
succeed.
You need not be alone, said Flaxman Low; for if you have no objection, I should be glad
to accompany you to Sevens Hall, and to give you any aid that may be in my power.
It is not necessary to record what Yarkindale had to say in answer to this offer. Presently he
resumed his story:
Jack was dispirited, and unlike Vane, desperately afraid of his fate. He hardly dare to fall
asleep. He recalled all he knew of our fathers death, and tried to draw me on to describe
Vanes, but I knew better than that. Still, with all my care, he went the same way! I did not
trust my own watchfulness a second time; I had a man in the house who was a trained
attendant. He sat outside Jacks door of nights. One morning earlyit was summer-time, and
he must have dropped into a dozehe was shoved over, chair and all, and before he could
pick himself up, Jack had flung himself from the balcony outside one of the gallery
windows.
Sevens Hall is a large Elizabethan mansion hidden away among acres of rich pasture lands,
where wild flowers bloom abundantly in their seasons and rooks build and caw in the great
elms. But none of the natural beauties of the country were visible when Mr. Low arrived late
on a November evening with Yarkindale. The interior of the house, however, made up for the
bleakness outside. Fires and lights blazed in the hall and in the principal rooms. During
dinner, Yarkindale seemed to have relapsed into his most dejected mood. He scarcely opened
his lips, and his face looked black, not only with depression, but anger. For he was by no

40

means ready to give up life; he rebelled against his fate with the strenuous fury of a man
whose pride and strength of will and nearest desires are baffled by an antagonist he cannot
evade.
During the evening they played billiards, for Low was aware that the less his companion
thought over his own position, the better.
Flaxman Low arranged to occupy a room opposite Yarkindales. So far the latter was in the
same state as on the day when he first saw Mr. Low. He was conscious of the same deep and
causeless depression, and the wish to return to Sevens Hall had grown beyond his power to
resist. But the second of the fatal signs, the following footsteps, had not yet been heard.
During the next forenoon, to Yarkindales surprise, Flaxman Low, instead of avoiding the
subject, threshed out the details of the former deaths at Sevens Hall, especially those of which
Yarkindale could give the fullest particulars. He examined the balcony from which Jack
Yarkindale had thrown himself. The ironwork was wrenched and broken in one part.
When did this happen? asked Low, pointing to it.
On the night that Jack died, was the reply. I have been very little at home since, and I did
not care at the time to bother about having it put right.
It looks, said Flaxman Low, as if he had a struggle for his life, and clung to the upper bar
here where it is bent outwards. He had wounds on his hands, had he not? he continued
looking at a dull long splash of rust upon the iron.
Yes, his hands were bleeding.
Please try to recollect exactly. Were they cut or bruised upon the palm? Or was it on the
back?
Now I come to think of it, his hands were a good deal injured, especially on the knuckles
one wrist was brokenby the fall no doubt.
Flaxman Low made no remark.
Next they went into the spacious bedroom where Vane and more of one of those who went
before him had died, and which Yarkindale now occupied. His companion asked to see the
rope with which Vane had hanged himself. Most unwillingly Yarkindale brought it out. The
two pieces, with their broken strands and brown stains, appeared to be of great interest to
Low. He next saw the exact spot on the great bedstead from which it had been suspended, and
searching along the back, he discovered the jagged edge of the wood against which Vane in
his last agony had endeavoured to free himself by fraying the rope.
We suppose the rope gave after he was dead, and that was because of his great weight, said
Yarkindale. This is he room in which most of the tragedies have taken place. You will
probably witness the last one.

41

That will depend on yourself, answered Flaxman Low. I am inclined to think there will be
no tragedy if you will stiffen your back, and hold out. Did either of your brothers on waking
complain of dreams?
Yarkindale looked suspiciously a him under drawn brows. Yes, he said harshly, they both
spoke of tormenting dreams, which they could not recall after walking, but that was also taken
as a symptom of brain disease by the experts. And now that you have learned about the
matter, you, too, begin upon the old, worn theory.
On the contrary, my theory has nothing to do with insanity, though the phenomena
connected with the deaths of your brothers seem to be closely associated with sleep. You tell
me that your brother Jack was afraid to sleep. Your other brother awoke to find his death
somehow. Therefore, we may be certain that at a certain stage of these series of events, as you
call them, sleep becomes both a dread and a danger.
Yarkindale shivered and glanced nervously over his shoulder.
This room is growing very cold. Let us go down to the hall. As to sleep, I have been afraid of
it for a long time.
All the day Low noticed that his companion continued to look excessively pale and nervous.
Every now and then he would turn his face round as if listening. In the evening they again
played billiards late into the night. The house was full of silence before they went upstairs. A
long strip of polished flooring led from the billiard-room door to the hall. Yarkindale
motioned to Low to stand still while he walked slowly to the foot of the staircase. In the
stillness Flaxman Low distinctly heard mingled steps, a softer tread following upon
Yarkindales purposely loud footfalls. The hall was in darkness with the exception of a gas jet
at the staircase. Yarkindale stopped, leant heavily against the pillar of the balustrade, and with
a ghastly face waited for Low to join him. Then he gripped Low by the arm and pointed
downwards. Beside his shadow, a second dim, hooded, formless shadow showed faintly on
the floor.
Stage two, said Yarkindale, You can see it is no fancy of our unhealthy brains.
Mr. Low has placed it upon record that the following week contained one of the most painful
experiences through which it has been his lot to pass. Yarkindale fought doggedly for his life.
He thrust aside his dejection. He folloed the advice given him with marvellous courage. But
still the ominous days dragged on, seeming at times too slow, at times too rapid in their
passage. Yarkindales physical strength began to faila mental battle is the most exhausting
of all struggles.
The next point in which you can help, said Low on the eighth night, is to try to recollect
what you have been dreaming of immediately before waking.
Yarkindale shook his head despondently.
I have tried over and over again, and though I wake in a cold sweat of terror, I cannot gather
my senses quickly enough to seize the remembrance of the thing that has spoiled my sleep,
he answered with a pallid smile. You think the psychological moment with us is undoubtedly
the first waking moment?

42

Low admitted that he thought it was so.
I understand now why you have emptied this room of everything except the two couches on
which we lie. You are afraid I shall lay hands upon myself! I feel the danger and yet I have no
suicidal desire. I want to liveHeaven, how I long to live! To be happy, and prosperous, and
light-hearted as I was once was!
Yarkindale lay back upon the couch.
I wish I could give you the faintest notion of the desperate misery in my mind to-night! I
could almost ask to die to escape from it! he went on; the burden only appears to grow
heavier and more unbearable every dayI sometimes feel I can no longer endure it.
Think, on the contrary, how much you have to live for. For your own self it matters less than
for your boy. Your victory may mean his.
How? Tell me how?
It is rather a long explanation, and I think we had better defer it until I can form some
definite ideas on the subject.
Very well. Yarkindale turned his face from the light. I will try to sleep and forget all this
wretchedness if I can. You will not leave me?
Through the long winter night, Flaxman Low watched beside him. He felt he dared not leave
him for one moment. The room was almost dark, for Yarkindale could not sleep otherwise.
The flickering firelight died down, until nothing was left of the last layer of glowing wood
ashes. The night lamp in a distant corner threw long shadows across the empty floor, that
wavered now and then as if a wind touched the flame.
Outside the night was still and black; not a sound disturbed the silence except those strange
unaccountable creakings and groanings which seem like inarticulate voices in an old house.
Yarkindale was sleeping heavily, and as the night deepened Low got up and walked about the
room in circles, always keeping his face towards the sleeper. The air had grown very cold, and
when he sat down again he drew a rug about him, and lit a cigar. The change in the
atmosphere was sudden and peculiar, and he softly pulled his couch close to Yarkindales and
waited.
Creakings and groanings floated up and down the gaunt old corridors, the mystery and
loneliness of night became oppressive. The shadow from the night lamp swayed and fluttered
as if a door had been opened. Mr. Low glanced at both doors. He had locked both, and both
were closed, yet the flame bent and flickered until Low put his hand across his companions
chest, so that he might detect any waking movement, for the light had now become too dim to
see by.
To his intense surprise he found his hand at once in the chill of a cold draught blowing on it
from above. But Flaxman Low had no time to think about it, for a terrible feeling of cold and
numbness was stealing upwards through his feet, and a sense of weighty and deadly chill

43

seemed pressing in upon his shoulders and back. The back of his neck ached, his outstretched
hand began to stiffen.
Yarkindale still slept heavily.
New sensations were borne in slowly upon Low. The chill around him was the repulsive
clammy chill of a thing long dead. Desperate desires awoke in his mind; something that could
almost be felt was beating down his will.
Then Yarkindale moved slightly in his sleep.
Low was conscious of a supreme struggle, whether of mind or body he does not know, but to
him it appeared to extend to the ultimate effort a man can make. A hideous temptation rushed
wildly across his thoughts to murder Yarkindale! A dreadful longing to feel the mans strong
throat yielding and crushing under his own sinewy strangling fingers, was forced into his
mind.
Suddenly, Low became aware that, although the couch and part of Yarkindales figure were
visible, his head and the upper part of his body were blotted out as if by some black
intervening object. But there was no outline of the interposed form, nothing but a vague thick
blackness.
He sprang to his feet as he heard an ominous choking gasp from Yarkindale, and with his
swift hands he felt over the body through the darkness. Yarkindale lay tense and stiff.
Yarkindale! shouted Low, as his fingers felt the angle of an elbow, then hands upon
Yarkindales throat, hands that clutched savagely with fingers of iron.
Wake man! shouted Low again, trying to loosen the desperate clutch. Then he knew that the
hands were Yarkindales hands, and that the man was apparently strangling himself.
The ghastly struggle, that in the darkness, seemed half a dream and half reality, ceased
abruptly when Yarkindale moved and his hands fell limp and slack into Lows as the darkness
between them cleared away.
Are you awake? Low called again.
Yes. What is it? I feel as if I had been fighting for my life. Or have I been very ill?
Both, in a sense. You have passed the crisis, and you are still living. Hold on, the lamps
gone out.
But, as he spoke, the light resumed its steady glimmer, and, when a couple of candles added
their brightness, the room was shown bare and empty, and as securely closed as ever. The
only change to be noted was that the temperature had risen.
A frosty sun was shining into the library windows next morning when Flaxman Low talked
out the matter of the haunting presence which had exerted so sinister an influence upon
generations of the Yarkindale family.

44

Before you say anything, I wish to admit, Mr. Low, that I, and no doubt those who have gone
before me, have certainly suffered from a transient touch of suicidal mania, began
Yarkindale gloomily.
And I am very sure you make a mistake, replied Low. In suicidal mania the idea is not
transient, but persistent, often extending over months, during which time the patient watches
for an opportunity to make away with himself. In your case, when I woke you last night, you
were aware of a desire to strangle yourself, but directly you became thoroughly awake, the
idea left you?
That is so. Still--
You know that often when dreaming one imagines oneself to do many things which in the
waking state would be entirely impossible, yet one continues subject to the idea for a moment
or so during the intermittent stage between waking and sleeping. If one has a nightmare, one
continues to feel a beating of the heart and a sensation of fright even for some interval after
waking. Yours was an analogous condition.
But look here, Mr. Low. How do you account for it that I, who at this moment have not the
slightest desire to make away with myself, should, at the moment of awaking from sleep, be
driven to doing that which I detest and wish to avoid?
In every particular, said Flaxman Low, your brothers cases were similar. Each of them
attempted his life in that transient moment while the will and reason were still passive, and
action was still subject to an abnormally vivid idea which had evidently been impressed upon
the consciousness during sleep. We have clear proof of this, I say, in the struggles of each to
save himself when actually in extremis. Contemporary psychology has arrived at the
conclusion that every man possesses a subconscious as well as a conscious self, added Low,
after a pause. This second or submerged self appears to be infinitely more susceptible of
spiritual influences than the conscious personality. Such influences work most strongly when
the normal self is in abeyance during sleep, dreaming, or the hypnotic condition. In your own
family you have an excellent example of the idea of self-destruction being suggested during
sleep, and carried into action during the first confused, unmastered moments of waking.
But how do you account for the following footsteps? Whose wishes or suggestions do we
obey?
I believe them to be different manifestations of the same evil intelligence. Ghosts sometimes,
as possibly you are aware, pursue a purpose, and your family has been held in subjection by a
malicious spirit that has goaded them on to destroy themselves. I could bring forward a
number of other examples; there is the Black Friar of the Sinclairs and the Fox of the
Oxenholms. To come back to your own casedo you remember of what you dreamed before
I woke you?
Yarkindale looked troubled.
I have a dim recollection, but it eludes me. I cannot fix it. He glanced round the room, as if
searching for a reminder. Suddenly he sprang up and approached a picture on the wallHere
it is! he shouted. I remember now. A dark figure stood over me; I saw the long face and the
sinister eyesJules Cevaine!

45

You have not spoken of Cevaine before. Who was he?
He was the last of the old Cevaines. You know this house is called Sevens Halla popular
corruption of the Norman name Cevaine. We Yarkindales were distant cousins, and inherited
this place after the death of Jules Cevain, about a hundred years ago. He was said to have
taken a prominent partunder another namein the Reign of Terror. However that may
behe resented our inheriting the Hall.
He died here? asked Flaxman Low.
Yes.
His purpose in haunting you, said Low, was doubtless the extermination of your family.
His spirit lingers about this spot where the final intense passion of terror, pain, and hatred was
felt. And you yourselves have unknowingly fostered his power by dwelling upon and
dreading his influence, thus opening the way to spirit communication, until from time to time
his disembodied will has superimposed itself upon your wills during the bewildered moment
of waking, and the several successive tragedies of which you told me have been the result.
Then how can we ever escape?
You have already won one and your most important victory; for the rest, think of him as
seldom as may be. Destroy this painting and any other articles that may have belonged to him;
and if you take my advice you will travel for a while.
In pursuance of Mr. Flaxman Lows advice, Yarkindale went for the cold weather to India. He
has had no recurrence of the old trouble, but he loathes Sevens Hall, and he is only waiting for
his son to be old enough to break the entail, when the property will be placed on the market.
THE END
Flaxman Low is a psychic detective of a pure Sherlock
Holmes-ian style. He investigates and solves psychic
mysteries with no tools other than his immense knowledge
of supernatural phenomena and his keen powers of
observation. Flaxman Low is the last hope for those
unfortunate people who are faced with a mystery that seems
beyond all natural laws, and which imperils not only their
bodies, but in some cases their very souls. Flaxman Low was
one of the original detectives. His adventures were published
in 1898-99. He's basically Sherlock Holmes, called in for his
unassailable calm in the face of ghosts or elementals or other
evil creatures. This volume contains all the twelve stories.
Pages 184
ISBN: 9781304838452
Buy it directly from us!

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46

RUNNING WOLF
by Algernon Blackwood
The man who enjoys an adventure outside the general experience of the race, and imparts it to
others, must not be surprised if he is taken for either a liar or a fool, as Malcolm Hyde, hotel
clerk on a holiday, discovered in due course. Nor is enjoy the right word to use in
describing his emotions; the word he chose was probably survive.
When he first set eyes on Medicine Lake he was struck by its still, sparkling beauty, lying
there in the vast Canadian backwoods; next, by its extreme loneliness; and, lastlya good
deal later, thisby its combination of beauty, loneliness, and singular atmosphere, due to the
fact that it was the scene of his adventure.
Its fairly stiff with big fish, said Morton of the Montreal Sporting Club. Spend your
holiday thereup Mattawa way, some fifteen miles west of Stony Creek. Youll have it all to
yourself except for an old Indian whos got a shack there. Camp on the east sideif youll
take a tip from me. He then talked for half an hour about the wonderful sport; yet he was not
otherwise very communicative, and did not suffer questions gladly, Hyde noticed. Nor had he
stayed there very long himself. If it was such a paradise as Morton, its discoverer and the most
experienced rod in the province, claimed, why had he himself spent only three days there?
Ran short of grub, was the explanation offered; but to another friend he had mentioned
briefly, flies, and to a third, so Hyde learned later, he gave the excuse that his half-breed
took sick, necessitating a quick return to civilization.
Hyde, however, cared little for the explanations; his interest in these came later. Stiff with
fish was the phrase he liked. He took the Canadian Pacific train to Mattawa, laid in his outfit
at Stony Creek, and set off thence for the fifteen-mile canoe-trip without a care in the world.
Travelling light, the portages did not trouble him; the water was swift and easy, the rapids
negotiable; everything came his way, as the saying is. Occasionally he saw big fish making
for the deeper pools, and was sorely tempted to stop; but he resisted. He pushed on between
the immense world of forests that stretched for hundreds of miles, known to deer, bear,
moose, and wolf, but strange to any echo of human tread, a deserted and primeval wilderness.
The autumn day was calm, the water sang and sparkled, the blue sky hung cloudless over all,
ablaze with light. Toward evening he passed an old beaver-dam, rounded a little point, and
had his first sight of Medicine Lake. He lifted his dripping paddle; the canoe shot with silent
glide into calm water. He gave an exclamation of delight, for the loveliness caught his breath
away.
Though primarily a sportsman, he was not insensible to beauty. The lake formed a crescent,
perhaps four miles long, its width between a mile and half a mile. The slanting gold of sunset
flooded it. No wind stirred its crystal surface. Here it had lain since the redskins god first
made it; here it would lie until he dried it up again. Towering spruce and hemlock trooped to
its very edge, majestic cedars leaned down as if to drink, crimson sumachs shone in fiery
patches, and maples gleamed orange and red beyond belief. The air was like wine, with the
silence of a dream.

47

It was here the red men formerly made medicine, with all the wild ritual and tribal
ceremony of an ancient day. But it was of Morton, rather than of Indians, that Hyde thought.
If this lonely, hidden paradise was really stiff with big fish, he owed a lot to Morton for the
information. Peace invaded him, but the excitement of the hunter lay below.
He looked about him with quick, practised eye for a camping-place before the sun sank below
the forests and the half-lights came. The Indians shack, lying in full sunshine on the eastern
shore, he found at once; but the trees lay too thick about it for comfort, nor did he wish to be
so close to its inhabitant. Upon the opposite side, however, an ideal clearing offered. This lay
already in shadow, the huge forest darkening it toward evening; but the open space attracted.
He paddled over quickly and examined it. The ground was hard and dry, he found, and a little
brook ran tinkling down one side of it into the lake. This outfall, too, would be a good fishing
spot. Also it was sheltered. A few low willows marked the mouth.
An experienced camper soon makes up his mind. It was a perfect site, and some charred logs,
with traces of former fires, proved that he was not the first to think so. Hyde was delighted.
Then, suddenly, disappointment came to tinge his pleasure. His kit was landed, and
preparations for putting up the tent were begun, when he recalled a detail that excitement had
so far kept in the background of his mindMortons advice. But not Mortons only, for the
storekeeper at Stony Creek had reinforced it. The big fellow with straggling moustache and
stooping shoulders, dressed in shirt and trousers, had handed him out a final sentence with the
bacon, flour, condensed milk, and sugar. He had repeated Mortons half-forgotten words:
Put yer tent on the east shore. I should, he had said at parting.
He remembered Morton, too, apparently. A shortish fellow, brown as an Indian and fairly
smelling of the woods. Travelling with Jake, the half-breed. That assuredly was Morton.
Didnt stay long, now, did he? he added in a reflective tone.
Going Windy Lake way, are yer? Or Ten Mile Water, maybe? he had first inquired of
Hyde.
Medicine Lake.
Is that so? the man said, as though he doubted it for some obscure reason. He pulled at his
ragged moustache a moment. Is that so, now? he repeated. And the final words followed
him down-stream after a considerable pausethe advice about the best shore on which to put
his tent.
All this now suddenly flashed back upon Hydes mind with a tinge of disappointment and
annoyance, for when two experienced men agreed, their opinion was not to be lightly
disregarded. He wished he had asked the storekeeper for more details. He looked about him,
he reflected, he hesitated. His ideal camping-ground lay certainly on the forbidden shore.
What in the world, he pondered, could be the objection to it?
But the light was fading; he must decide quickly one way or the other. After staring at his
unpacked dunnage and the tent, already half erected, he made up his mind with a muttered
expression that consigned both Morton and the storekeeper to less pleasant places. They
must have some reason, he growled to himself; fellows like that usually know what theyre
talking about. I guess Id better shift over to the other sidefor to-night, at any rate.

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He glanced across the water before actually reloading. No smoke rose from the Indians
shack. He had seen no sign of a canoe. The man, he decided, was away. Reluctantly, then, he
left the good camping-ground and paddled across the lake, and half an hour later his tent was
up, firewood collected, and two small trout were already caught for supper. But the bigger
fish, he knew, lay waiting for him on the other side by the little outfall, and he fell asleep at
length on his bed of balsam boughs, annoyed and disappointed, yet wondering how a mere
sentence could have persuaded him so easily against his own better judgment. He slept like
the dead; the sun was well up before he stirred.
But his morning mood was a very different one. The brilliant light, the peace, the intoxicating
air, all this was too exhilarating for the mind to harbour foolish fancies, and he marvelled that
he could have been so weak the night before. No hesitation lay in him anywhere. He struck
camp immediately after breakfast, paddled back across the strip of shining water, and quickly
settled in upon the forbidden shore, as he now called it, with a contemptuous grin. And the
more he saw of the spot, the better he liked it. There was plenty of wood, running water to
drink, an open space about the tent, and there were no flies. The fishing, moreover, was
magnificent. Mortons description was fully justified, and stiff with big fish for once was
not an exaggeration.
The useless hours of the early afternoon he passed dozing in the sun, or wandering through
the underbrush beyond the camp. He found no sign of anything unusual. He bathed in a cool,
deep pool; he revelled in the lonely little paradise. Lonely it certainly was, but the loneliness
was part of its charm; the stillness, the peace, the isolation of this beautiful backwoods lake
delighted him. The silence was divine. He was entirely satisfied.
After a brew of tea, he strolled toward evening along the shore, looking for the first sign of a
rising fish. A faint ripple on the water, with the lengthening shadows, made good conditions.
Plop followed plop, as the big fellows rose, snatched at their food, and vanished into the
depths. He hurried back. Ten minutes later he had taken his rods and was gliding cautiously in
the canoe through the quiet water.
So good was the sport, indeed, and so quickly did the big trout pile up in the bottom of the
canoe that, despite the growing lateness, he found it hard to tear himself away. One more,
he said, and then I really will go. He landed that one more, and was in act of taking it off
the hook, when the deep silence of the evening was curiously disturbed. He became abruptly
aware that someone watched him. A pair of eyes, it seemed, were fixed upon him from some
point in the surrounding shadows.
Thus, at least, he interpreted the odd disturbance in his happy mood; for thus he felt it. The
feeling stole over him without the slightest warning. He was not alone. The slippery big trout
dropped from his fingers. He sat motionless, and stared about him.
Nothing stirred; the ripple on the lake had died away; there was no wind; the forest lay a
single purple mass of shadow; the yellow sky, fast fading, threw reflections that troubled the
eye and made distances uncertain. But there was no sound, no movement; he saw no figure
anywhere. Yet he knew that someone watched him, and a wave of quite unreasoning terror
gripped him. The nose of the canoe was against the bank. In a moment, and instinctively, he
shoved it off and paddled into deeper water. The watcher, it came to him also instinctively,
was quite close to him upon that bank. But where? And who? Was it the Indian?

49

Here, in deeper water, and some twenty yards from the shore, he paused and strained both
sight and hearing to find some possible clue. He felt half ashamed, now that the first strange
feeling passed a little. But the certainty remained. Absurd as it was, he felt positive that
someone watched him with concentrated and intent regard. Every fibre in his being told him
so; and though he could discover no figure, no new outline on the shore, he could even have
sworn in which clump of willow bushes the hidden person crouched and stared. His attention
seemed drawn to that particular clump.
The water dripped slowly from his paddle, now lying across the thwarts. There was no other
sound. The canvas of his tent gleamed dimly. A star or two were out. He waited. Nothing
happened.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the feeling passed, and he knew that the person who had
been watching him intently had gone. It was as if a current had been turned off; the normal
world flowed back; the landscape emptied as if someone had left a room. The disagreeable
feeling left him at the same time, so that he instantly turned the canoe in to the shore again,
landed, and, paddle in hand, went over to examine the clump of willows he had singled out as
the place of concealment. There was no one there, of course, nor any trace of recent human
occupancy. No leaves, no branches stirred, nor was a single twig displaced; his keen and
practised sight detected no sign of tracks upon the ground. Yet, for all that, he felt positive
that a little time ago someone had crouched among these very leaves and watched him. He
remained absolutely convinced of it. The watcher, whether Indian, hunter, stray lumberman,
or wandering half-breed, had now withdrawn, a search was useless, and dusk was falling. He
returned to his little camp, more disturbed perhaps than he cared to acknowledge. He cooked
his supper, hung up his catch on a string, so that no prowling animal could get at it during the
night, and prepared to make himself comfortable until bedtime. Unconsciously, he built a
bigger fire than usual, and found himself peering over his pipe into the deep shadows beyond
the firelight, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound. He remained generally on the alert
in a way that was new to him.
A man under such conditions and in such a place need not know discomfort until the sense of
loneliness strikes him as too vivid a reality. Loneliness in a backwoods camp brings charm,
pleasure, and a happy sense of calm until, and unless, it comes too near. It should remain an
ingredient only among other conditions; it should not be directly, vividly noticed. Once it has
crept within short range, however, it may easily cross the narrow line between comfort and
discomfort, and darkness is an undesirable time for the transition. A curious dread may easily
followthe dread lest the loneliness suddenly be disturbed, and the solitary human feel
himself open to attack.
For Hyde, now, this transition had been already accomplished; the too intimate sense of his
loneliness had shifted abruptly into the worse condition of no longer being quite alone. It was
an awkward moment, and the hotel clerk realized his position exactly. He did not quite like it.
He sat there, with his back to the blazing logs, a very visible object in the light, while all
about him the darkness of the forest lay like an impenetrable wall. He could not see a foot
beyond the small circle of his camp-fire; the silence about him was like the silence of the
dead. No leaf rustled, no wave lapped; he himself sat motionless as a log.
Then again he became suddenly aware that the person who watched him had returned, and
that same intent and concentrated gaze as before was fixed upon him where he lay. There was
no warning; he heard no stealthy tread or snapping of dry twigs, yet the owner of those steady

50

eyes was very close to him, probably not a dozen feet away. This sense of proximity was
overwhelming.
It is unquestionable that a shiver ran down his spine. This time, moreover, he felt positive that
the man crouched just beyond the firelight, the distance he himself could see being nicely
calculated, and straight in front of him. For some minutes he sat without stirring a single
muscle, yet with each muscle ready and alert, straining his eyes in vain to pierce the darkness,
but only succeeding in dazzling his sight with the reflected light. Then, as he shifted his
position slowly, cautiously, to obtain another angle of vision, his heart gave two big thumps
against his ribs and the hair seemed to rise on his scalp with the sense of cold that shot
horribly up his spine. In the darkness facing him he saw two small and greenish circles that
were certainly a pair of eyes, yet not the eyes of Indian, hunter, or of any human being. It was
a pair of animal eyes that stared so fixedly at him out of the night. And this certainly had an
immediate and natural effect upon him.
For, at the menace of those eyes, the fears of millions of long dead hunters since the dawn of
time woke in him. Hotel clerk though he was, heredity surged through him in an automatic
wave of instinct. His hand groped for a weapon. His fingers fell on the iron head of his small
camp axe, and at once he was himself again. Confidence returned; the vague, superstitious
dread was gone. This was a bear or wolf that smelt his catch and came to steal it. With beings
of that sort he knew instinctively how to deal, yet admitting, by this very instinct, that his
original dread had been of quite another kind.
Ill damned quick find out what it is, he exclaimed aloud, and snatching a burning brand
from the fire, he hurled it with good aim straight at the eyes of the beast before him.
The bit of pitch-pine fell in a shower of sparks that lit the dry grass this side of the animal,
flared up a moment, then died quickly down again. But in that instant of bright illumination
he saw clearly what his unwelcome visitor was. A big timber wolf sat on its hindquarters,
staring steadily at him through the firelight. He saw its legs and shoulders, he saw its hair, he
saw also the big hemlock trunks lit up behind it, and the willow scrub on each side. It formed
a vivid, clear-cut picture shown in clear detail by the momentary blaze. To his amazement,
however, the wolf did not turn and bolt away from the burning log, but withdrew a few yards
only, and sat there again on its haunches, staring, staring as before. Heavens, how it stared!
He shoo-ed it, but without effect; it did not budge. He did not waste another good log on it,
for his fear was dissipated now; a timber wolf was a timber wolf, and it might sit there as long
as it pleased, provided it did not try to steal his catch. No alarm was in him any more. He
knew that wolves were harmless in the summer and autumn, and even when packed in the
winter, they would attack a man only when suffering desperate hunger. So he lay and watched
the beast, threw bits of stick in its direction, even talked to it, wondering only that it never
moved. You can stay there for ever, if you like, he remarked to it aloud, for you cannot get
at my fish, and the rest of the grub I shall take into the tent with me!
The creature blinked its bright green eyes, but made no move.
Why, then, if his fear was gone, did he think of certain things as he rolled himself in the
Hudson Bay blankets before going to sleep? The immobility of the animal was strange, its
refusal to turn and bolt was still stranger. Never before had he known a wild creature that was
not afraid of fire. Why did it sit and watch him, as with purpose in its dreadful eyes? How had
he felt its presence earlier and instantly? A timber wolf, especially a solitary timber wolf, was

51

a timid thing, yet this one feared neither man nor fire. Now, as he lay there wrapped in his
blankets inside the cosy tent, it sat outside beneath the stars, beside the fading embers, the
wind chilly in its fur, the ground cooling beneath its planted paws, watching him, steadily
watching him, perhaps until the dawn.
It was unusual, it was strange. Having neither imagination nor tradition, he called upon no
store of racial visions. Matter of fact, a hotel clerk on a fishing holiday, he lay there in his
blankets, merely wondering and puzzled. A timber wolf was a timber wolf and nothing more.
Yet this timber wolfthe idea haunted himwas different. In a word, the deeper part of his
original uneasiness remained. He tossed about, he shivered sometimes in his broken sleep; he
did not go out to see, but he woke early and unrefreshed.
Again, with the sunshine and the morning wind, however, the incident of the night before was
forgotten, almost unreal. His hunting zeal was uppermost. The tea and fish were delicious, his
pipe had never tasted so good, the glory of this lonely lake amid primeval forests went to his
head a little; he was a hunter before the Lord, and nothing else. He tried the edge of the lake,
and in the excitement of playing a big fish, knew suddenly that it, the wolf, was there. He
paused with the rod, exactly as if struck. He looked about him, he looked in a definite
direction. The brilliant sunshine made every smallest detail clear and sharpboulders of
granite, burned stems, crimson sumach, pebbles along the shore in neat, separate detail
without revealing where the watcher hid. Then, his sight wandering farther inshore among the
tangled undergrowth, he suddenly picked up the familiar, half-expected outline. The wolf was
lying behind a granite boulder, so that only the head, the muzzle, and the eyes were visible. It
merged in its background. Had he not known it was a wolf, he could never have separated it
from the landscape. The eyes shone in the sunlight.
There it lay. He looked straight at it. Their eyes, in fact, actually met full and square. Great
Scott! he exclaimed aloud, why, its like looking at a human being! From that moment,
unwittingly, he established a singular personal relation with the beast. And what followed
confirmed this undesirable impression, for the animal rose instantly and came down in
leisurely fashion to the shore, where it stood looking back at him. It stood and stared into his
eyes like some great wild dog, so that he was aware of a new and almost incredible
sensationthat it courted recognition.
Well! well! he exclaimed again, relieving his feelings by addressing it aloud, if this
doesnt beat everything I ever saw! What dyou want, anyway?
He examined it now more carefully. He had never seen a wolf so big before; it was a
tremendous beast, a nasty customer to tackle, he reflected, if it ever came to that. It stood
there absolutely fearless and full of confidence. In the clear sunlight he took in every detail of
ita huge, shaggy, lean-flanked timber wolf, its wicked eyes staring straight into his own,
almost with a kind of purpose in them. He saw its great jaws, its teeth, and its tongue, hung
out, dropping saliva a little. And yet the idea of its savagery, its fierceness, was very little in
him.
He was amazed and puzzled beyond belief. He wished the Indian would come back. He did
not understand this strange behaviour in an animal. Its eyes, the odd expression in them, gave
him a queer, unusual, difficult feeling. Had his nerves gone wrong, he almost wondered.

52

The beast stood on the shore and looked at him. He wished for the first time that he had
brought a rifle. With a resounding smack he brought his paddle down flat upon the water,
using all his strength, till the echoes rang as from a pistol-shot that was audible from one end
of the lake to the other. The wolf never stirred. He shouted, but the beast remained unmoved.
He blinked his eyes, speaking as to a dog, a domestic animal, a creature accustomed to human
ways. It blinked its eyes in return.
At length, increasing his distance from the shore, he continued fishing, and the excitement of
the marvellous sport held his attentionhis surface attention, at any rate. At times he almost
forgot the attendant beast; yet whenever he looked up, he saw it there. And worse; when he
slowly paddled home again, he observed it trotting along the shore as though to keep him
company. Crossing a little bay, he spurted, hoping to reach the other point before his
undesired and undesirable attendant. Instantly the brute broke into that rapid, tireless lope
that, except on ice, can run down anything on four legs in the woods. When he reached the
distant point, the wolf was waiting for him. He raised his paddle from the water, pausing a
moment for reflection; for this very close attentionthere were dusk and night yet to come
he certainly did not relish. His camp was near; he had to land; he felt uncomfortable even in
the sunshine of broad day, when, to his keen relief, about half a mile from the tent, he saw the
creature suddenly stop and sit down in the open. He waited a moment, then paddled on. It did
not follow. There was no attempt to move; it merely sat and watched him. After a few
hundred yards, he looked back. It was still sitting where he left it. And the absurd, yet
significant, feeling came to him that the beast divined his thought, his anxiety, his dread, and
was now showing him, as well as it could, that it entertained no hostile feeling and did not
meditate attack.
He turned the canoe toward the shore; he landed; he cooked his supper in the dusk; the animal
made no sign. Not far away it certainly lay and watched, but it did not advance. And to Hyde,
observant now in a new way, came one sharp, vivid reminder of the strange atmosphere into
which his commonplace personality had strayed: he suddenly recalled that his relations with
the beast, already established, had progressed distinctly a stage further. This startled him, yet
without the accompanying alarm he must certainly have felt twenty-four hours before. He had
an understanding with the wolf. He was aware of friendly thoughts toward it. He even went so
far as to set out a few big fish on the spot where he had first seen it sitting the previous night.
If he comes, he thought, he is welcome to them. Ive got plenty, anyway. He thought of it
now as he.
Yet the wolf made no appearance until he was in the act of entering his tent a good deal later.
It was close on ten oclock, whereas nine was his hour, and late at that, for turning in. He had,
therefore, unconsciously been waiting for him. Then, as he was closing the flap, he saw the
eyes close to where he had placed the fish. He waited, hiding himself, and expecting to hear
sounds of munching jaws; but all was silence. Only the eyes glowed steadily out of the
background of pitch darkness. He closed the flap. He had no slightest fear. In ten minutes he
was sound asleep.
He could not have slept very long, for when he woke up he could see the shine of a faint red
light through the canvas, and the fire had not died down completely. He rose and cautiously
peeped out. The air was very cold; he saw his breath. But he also saw the wolf, for it had
come in, and was sitting by the dying embers, not two yards away from where he crouched
behind the flap. And this time, at these very close quarters, there was something in the attitude
of the big wild thing that caught his attention with a vivid thrill of startled surprise and a

53

sudden shock of cold that held him spellbound. He stared, unable to believe his eyes; for the
wolfs attitude conveyed to him something familiar that at first he was unable to explain. Its
pose reached him in the terms of another thing with which he was entirely at home. What was
it? Did his senses betray him? Was he still asleep and dreaming?
Then, suddenly, with a start of uncanny recognition, he knew. Its attitude was that of a dog.
Having found the clue, his mind then made an awful leap. For it was, after all, no dog its
appearance aped, but something nearer to himself, and more familiar still. Good heavens! It
sat there with the pose, the attitude, the gesture in repose of something almost human. And
then, with a second shock of biting wonder, it came to him like a revelation. The wolf sat
beside that camp-fire as a man might sit.
Before he could weigh his extraordinary discovery, before he could examine it in detail or
with care, the animal, sitting in this ghastly fashion, seemed to feel his eyes fixed on it. It
slowly turned and looked him in the face, and for the first time Hyde felt a full-blooded,
superstitious fear flood through his entire being. He seemed transfixed with that nameless
terror that is said to attack human beings who suddenly face the dead, finding themselves
bereft of speech and movement. This moment of paralysis certainly occurred. Its passing,
however, was as singular as its advent. For almost at once he was aware of something beyond
and above this mockery of human attitude and pose, something that ran along unaccustomed
nerves and reached his feeling, even perhaps his heart. The revulsion was extraordinary, its
result still more extraordinary and unexpected. Yet the fact remains. He was aware of another
thing that had the effect of stilling his terror as soon as it was born. He was aware of appeal,
silent, half expressed, yet vastly pathetic. He saw in the savage eyes a beseeching, even a
yearning, expression that changed his mood as by magic from dread to natural sympathy. The
great grey brute, symbol of cruel ferocity, sat there beside his dying fire and appealed for
help.
This gulf betwixt animal and human seemed in that instant bridged. It was, of course,
incredible. Hyde, sleep still possibly clinging to his inner being with the shades and half
shapes of dream yet about his soul, acknowledged, how he knew not, the amazing fact. He
found himself nodding to the brute in half consent, and instantly, without more ado, the lean
grey shape rose like a wraith and trotted off swiftly, but with stealthy tread, into the
background of the night.
When Hyde woke in the morning his first impression was that he must have dreamed the
entire incident. His practical nature asserted itself. There was a bite in the fresh autumn air;
the bright sun allowed no half lights anywhere; he felt brisk in mind and body. Reviewing
what had happened, he came to the conclusion that it was utterly vain to speculate; no
possible explanation of the animals behaviour occurred to him; he was dealing with
something entirely outside his experience. His fear, however, had completely left him. The
odd sense of friendliness remained. The beast had a definite purpose, and he himself was
included in that purpose. His sympathy held good.
But with the sympathy there was also an intense curiosity. If it shows itself again, he told
himself, Ill go up close and find out what it wants. The fish laid out the night before had
not been touched.
It must have been a full hour after breakfast when he next saw the brute; it was standing on
the edge of the clearing, looking at him in the way now become familiar. Hyde immediately

54

picked up his axe and advanced toward it boldly, keeping his eyes fixed straight upon its own.
There was nervousness in him, but kept well under; nothing betrayed it; step by step he drew
nearer until some ten yards separated them. The wolf had not stirred a muscle as yet. Its jaws
hung open, its eyes observed him intently; it allowed him to approach without a sign of what
its mood might be. Then, with these ten yards between them, it turned abruptly and moved
slowly off, looking back first over one shoulder and then over the other, exactly as a dog
might do, to see if he was following.
A singular journey it was they then made together, animal and man. The trees surrounded
them at once, for they left the lake behind them, entering the tangled bush beyond. The beast,
Hyde noticed, obviously picked the easiest track for him to follow; for obstacles that meant
nothing to the four-legged expert, yet were difficult for a man, were carefully avoided with an
almost uncanny skill, while yet the general direction was accurately kept. Occasionally there
were windfalls to be surmounted; but though the wolf bounded over these with ease, it was
always waiting for the man on the other side after he had laboriously climbed over. Deeper
and deeper into the heart of the lonely forest they penetrated in this singular fashion, cutting
across the arc of the lakes crescent, it seemed to Hyde; for after two miles or so, he
recognized the big rocky bluff that overhung the water at its northern end. This outstanding
bluff he had seen from his camp, one side of it falling sheer into the water; it was probably the
spot, he imagined, where the Indians held their medicine-making ceremonies, for it stood out
in isolated fashion, and its top formed a private plateau not easy of access. And it was here,
close to a big spruce at the foot of the bluff upon the forest side, that the wolf stopped
suddenly and for the first time since its appearance gave audible expression to its feelings. It
sat down on its haunches, lifted its muzzle with open jaws, and gave vent to a subdued and
long-drawn howl that was more like the wail of a dog than the fierce barking cry associated
with a wolf.
By this time Hyde had lost not only fear, but caution too; nor, oddly enough, did this warning
howl revive a sign of unwelcome emotion in him. In that curious sound he detected the same
message that the eyes conveyedappeal for help. He paused, nevertheless, a little startled,
and while the wolf sat waiting for him, he looked about him quickly. There was young timber
here; it had once been a small clearing, evidently. Axe and fire had done their work, but there
was evidence to an experienced eye that it was Indians and not white men who had once been
busy here. Some part of the medicine ritual, doubtless, took place in the little clearing, thought
the man, as he advanced again towards his patient leader. The end of their queer journey, he
felt, was close at hand.
He had not taken two steps before the animal got up and moved very slowly in the direction
of some low bushes that formed a clump just beyond. It entered these, first looking back to
make sure that its companion watched. The bushes hid it; a moment later it emerged again.
Twice it performed this pantomime, each time, as it reappeared, standing still and staring at
the man with as distinct an expression of appeal in the eyes as an animal may compass,
probably. Its excitement, meanwhile, certainly increased, and this excitement was, with equal
certainty, communicated to the man. Hyde made up his mind quickly. Gripping his axe
tightly, and ready to use it at the first hint of malice, he moved slowly nearer to the bushes,
wondering with something of a tremor what would happen.
If he expected to be startled, his expectation was at once fulfilled; but it was the behaviour of
the beast that made him jump. It positively frisked about him like a happy dog. It frisked for
joy. Its excitement was intense, yet from its open mouth no sound was audible. With a sudden

55

leap, then, it bounded past him into the clump of bushes, against whose very edge he stood,
and began scraping vigorously at the ground. Hyde stood and stared, amazement and interest
now banishing all his nervousness, even when the beast, in its violent scraping, actually
touched his body with its own. He had, perhaps, the feeling that he was in a dream, one of
those fantastic dreams in which things may happen without involving an adequate surprise;
for otherwise the manner of scraping and scratching at the ground must have seemed an
impossible phenomenon. No wolf, no dog certainly, used its paws in the way those paws were
working. Hyde had the odd, distressing sensation that it was hands, not paws, he watched.
And yet, somehow, the natural, adequate surprise he should have felt was absent. The strange
action seemed not entirely unnatural. In his heart some deep hidden spring of sympathy and
pity stirred instead. He was aware of pathos.
The wolf stopped in its task and looked up into his face. Hyde acted without hesitation then.
Afterwards he was wholly at a loss to explain his own conduct. It seemed he knew what to do,
divined what was asked, expected of him. Between his mind and the dumb desire yearning
through the savage animal there was intelligent and intelligible communication. He cut a stake
and sharpened it, for the stones would blunt his axe-edge. He entered the clump of bushes to
complete the digging his four-legged companion had begun. And while he worked, though he
did not forget the close proximity of the wolf, he paid no attention to it; often his back was
turned as he stooped over the laborious clearing away of the hard earth; no uneasiness or
sense of danger was in him any more. The wolf sat outside the clump and watched the
operations. Its concentrated attention, its patience, its intense eagerness, the gentleness and
docility of the grey, fierce, and probably hungry brute, its obvious pleasure and satisfaction,
too, at having won the human to its mysterious purposethese were colours in the strange
picture that Hyde thought of later when dealing with the human herd in his hotel again. At the
moment he was aware chiefly of pathos and affection. The whole business was, of course, not
to be believed, but that discovery came later, too, when telling it to others.
The digging continued for fully half an hour before his labour was rewarded by the discovery
of a small whitish object. He picked it up and examined itthe finger-bone of a man. Other
discoveries then followed quickly and in quantity. The cache was laid bare. He collected
nearly the complete skeleton. The skull, however, he found last, and might not have found at
all but for the guidance of his strangely alert companion. It lay some few yards away from the
central hole now dug, and the wolf stood nuzzling the ground with its nose before Hyde
understood that he was meant to dig exactly in that spot for it. Between the beasts very paws
his stake struck hard upon it. He scraped the earth from the bone and examined it carefully. It
was perfect, save for the fact that some wild animal had gnawed it, the teeth-marks being still
plainly visible. Close beside it lay the rusty iron head of a tomahawk. This and the smallness
of the bones confirmed him in his judgment that it was the skeleton not of a white man, but of
an Indian.
During the excitement of the discovery of the bones one by one, and finally of the skull, but,
more especially, during the period of intense interest while Hyde was examining them, he had
paid little, if any, attention to the wolf. He was aware that it sat and watched him, never
moving its keen eyes for a single moment from the actual operations, but of sign or movement
it made none at all. He knew that it was pleased and satisfied, he knew also that he had now
fulfilled its purpose in a great measure. The further intuition that now came to him, derived,
he felt positive, from his companions dumb desire, was perhaps the cream of the entire
experience to him. Gathering the bones together in his coat, he carried them, together with the
tomahawk, to the foot of the big spruce where the animal had first stopped. His leg actually

56

touched the creatures muzzle as he passed. It turned its head to watch, but did not follow, nor
did it move a muscle while he prepared the platform of boughs upon which he then laid the
poor worn bones of an Indian who had been killed, doubtless, in sudden attack or ambush, and
to whose remains had been denied the last grace of proper tribal burial. He wrapped the bones
in bark; he laid the tomahawk beside the skull; he lit the circular fire round the pyre, and the
blue smoke rose upward into the clear bright sunshine of the Canadian autumn morning till it
was lost among the mighty trees far overhead.
In the moment before actually lighting the little fire he had turned to note what his companion
did. It sat five yards away, he saw, gazing intently, and one of its front paws was raised a little
from the ground. It made no sign of any kind. He finished the work, becoming so absorbed in
it that he had eyes for nothing but the tending and guarding of his careful ceremonial fire. It
was only when the platform of boughs collapsed, laying their charred burden gently on the
fragrant earth among the soft wood ashes, that he turned again, as though to show the wolf
what he had done, and seek, perhaps, some look of satisfaction in its curiously expressive
eyes. But the place he searched was empty. The wolf had gone.
He did not see it again; it gave no sign of its presence anywhere; he was not watched. He
fished as before, wandered through the bush about his camp, sat smoking round his fire after
dark, and slept peacefully in his cosy little tent. He was not disturbed. No howl was ever
audible in the distant forest, no twig snapped beneath a stealthy tread, he saw no eyes. The
wolf that behaved like a man had gone for ever.
It was the day before he left that Hyde, noticing smoke rising from the shack across the lake,
paddled over to exchange a word or two with the Indian, who had evidently now returned.
The Redskin came down to meet him as he landed, but it was soon plain that he spoke very
little English. He emitted the familiar grunts at first; then bit by bit Hyde stirred his limited
vocabulary into action. The net result, however, was slight enough, though it was certainly
direct:
You camp there? the man asked, pointing to the other side.
Yes.
Wolf come?
Yes.
You see wolf?
Yes.
The Indian stared at him fixedly a moment, a keen, wondering look upon his coppery, creased
face.
You fraid wolf? he asked after a moments pause.
No, replied Hyde, truthfully. He knew it was useless to ask questions of his own, though he
was eager for information. The other would have told him nothing. It was sheer luck that the
man had touched on the subject at all, and Hyde realized that his own best rle was merely to

57

answer, but to ask no questions. Then, suddenly, the Indian became comparatively voluble.
There was awe in his voice and manner.
Him no wolf. Him big medicine wolf. Him spirit wolf.
Whereupon he drank the tea the other had brewed for him, closed his lips tightly, and said no
more. His outline was discernible on the shore, rigid and motionless, an hour later, when
Hydes canoe turned the corner of the lake three miles away, and landed to make the portages
up the first rapid of his homeward stream.
It was Morton who, after some persuasion, supplied further details of what he called the
legend. Some hundred years before, the tribe that lived in the territory beyond the lake began
their annual medicine-making ceremonies on the big rocky bluff at the northern end; but no
medicine could be made. The spirits, declared the chief medicine man, would not answer.
They were offended. An investigation followed. It was discovered that a young brave had
recently killed a wolf, a thing strictly forbidden, since the wolf was the totem animal of the
tribe. To make matters worse, the name of the guilty man was Running Wolf. The offence
being unpardonable, the man was cursed and driven from the tribe:
Go out. Wander alone among the woods, and if we see you we slay you. Your bones shall be
scattered in the forest, and your spirit shall not enter the Happy Hunting Grounds till one of
another race shall find and bury them.
Which meant, explained Morton laconically, his only comment on the story, probably for
ever.
THE END
Algernon Blackwood - famous writer of fantasy, ghost
and horror stories. This is a fine collection with twenty
of his best short stories.

320 pages
ISBN 9781409237310

Buy it directly from us!











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58

ADJUSTMENT TEAM
By Philip K Dick
IT WAS BRIGHT MORNING. The sun shone down on the damp lawns and sidewalks,
reflecting off the sparkling parked cars. The Clerk came walking hurriedly, leafing through
his instructions, flipping pages and frowning. He stopped in front of the small green stucco
house for a moment, and then turned up the walk, entering the back yard.
The dog was asleep inside his shed, his back turned to the world. Only his thick tail showed.
"For Heaven's sake," the Clerk exclaimed, hands on his hips. He tapped his mechanical pencil
noisily against his clipboard. "Wake up, you in there."
The dog stirred. He came slowly out of his shed, head first, blinking and yawning in the
morning sunlight. "Oh, it's you. Already?" He yawned again.
"Big doings." The Clerk ran his expert finger down the traffic-control sheet. "They're
adjusting Sector T137 this morning. Starting at exactly nine o'clock." He glanced at his pocket
watch. "Three hour alteration. Will finish by noon."
"T137? That's not far from here."
The Clerk's lips twisted in contempt. "Indeed. You're showing astonishing perspicacity, my
black-haired friend. Maybe you can divine why I'm here."
"We overlap with T137."
"Exactly. Elements from this sector are involved. We must make sure they're properly placed
when adjustment begins." The Clerk glanced toward the small green stucco house. "Your
particular task concerns the man in there. He is employed by a business establishment lying
within Sector T137. It's essential he be there before nine o'clock.
The dog studied the house. The shades had been let up. The kitchen light was on. Beyond the
lace curtains dim shapes could be seen, stirring around the table. A man and woman. They
were drinking coffee.
"There they are," the dog murmured. "The man, you say? He's not going to be harmed, is he?"
"Of course not. But he must be at his office early. Usually he doesn't leave until after nine.
Today he must leave at eight-thirty. He must be within Sector T137 before the process begins,
or he won't be altered to coincide with the new adjustment."
The dog sighed. "That means I have to summon."
"Correct." The Clerk checked his instruction sheet. "You're to summon at precisely eight-
fifteen. You've got that? Eight-fifteen. No later."
"What will an eight-fifteen summons bring?"

59

The Clerk flipped open his instruction book, examining the code columns. "It will bring A
Friend with a Car. To drive him to work early." He closed the book and folded his arms,
preparing to wait. "That way he'll get to his office almost an hour ahead of time. Which is
vital."
"Vital," the dog murmured. He lay down, half inside his shed. His eyes closed. "Vital."
"Wake up! This must be done exactly on time. If you summon too soon or too late"
The dog nodded sleepily. "I know. I'll do it right. I always do it right."

Ed Fletcher poured more cream in his coffee. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Behind
him the oven hissed softly, filling the kitchen with warm fumes. The yellow overhead light
beamed down.
"Another roll?" Ruth asked.
"I'm full." Ed sipped his coffee. "You can have it."
"Have to go." Ruth got to her feet, unfastening her robe. "Time to go to work."
"Already?"
"Sure. You lucky bum! Wish I could sit around." Ruth moved toward the bathroom, running
her fingers through her long black hair. "When you work for the Government you start early."
"But you get off early," Ed pointed out. He unfolded the Chronicle, examining the sporting
green. "Well, have a good time today. Don't type any wrong words, any double-entendres."
The bathroom door closed, as Ruth shed her robe and began dressing.
Ed yawned and glanced up at the clock over the sink. Plenty of time. Not even eight. He
sipped more coffee and then rubbed his stubbled chin. He would have to shave. He shrugged
lazily. Ten minutes, maybe.
Ruth came bustling out in her nylon slip, hurrying into the bedroom. "I'm late." She rushed
rapidly around, getting into her blouse and skirt, her stockings, her little white shoes. Finally
she bent over and kissed him. "Goodbye, honey. I'll do the shopping tonight."
"Goodbye." Ed lowered his newspaper and put his arm around his wife's trim waist, hugging
her affectionately. "You smell nice. Don't flirt with the boss."
Ruth ran out the front door, clattering down the steps. He heard the click of her heels diminish
down the sidewalk.
She was gone. The house was silent. He was alone.

60

Ed got to his feet, pushing his chair back. He wandered lazily into the bathroom and got his
razor down. Eight-ten. He washed his face, rubbing it down with shaving cream, and began to
shave. He shaved leisurely. He had plenty of time.

The Clerk bent over his round pocket watch, licking his lips nervously. Sweat stood out on his
forehead. The second hand ticked on. Eight-fourteen. Almost time.
"Get ready!" the Clerk snapped. He tensed, his small body rigid. "Ten seconds to go!"
"Time!" the Clerk cried.
Nothing happened.
The Clerk turned, eyes wide with horror. From the little shed a thick black tail showed. The
dog had gone back to sleep.
"TIME!" the Clerk shrieked. He kicked wildly at the furry rump. "In the name of God"
The dog stirred. He thumped around hastily, backing out of the shed. "My goodness."
Embarrassed, he made his way quickly to the fence. Standing up on his hind paws, he opened
his mouth wide. "Woof!" he summoned. He glanced apologetically at the Clerk. "I beg your
pardon. I can't understand how"
The Clerk gazed fixedly down at his watch. Cold terror knotted his stomach. The hands
showed eight-sixteen. "You failed," he grated. "You failed! You miserable flea-bitten rag-bag
of a wornout old mutt! You failed!"
The dog dropped and came anxiously back. "I failed, you say? You mean the summons time
was?"
"You summoned too late." The Clerk put his watch away slowly, a glazed expression on his
face. "You summoned too late. We won't get A Friend with a Car. There's no telling what will
come instead. I'm afraid to see what eight-sixteen brings."
"I hope he'll be in Sector T137 in time."
"He won't," the Clerk wailed. "He won't be there. We've made a mistake. We've made things
go wrong!"

Ed was rinsing the shaving cream from his face when the muffled sound of the dog's bark
echoed through the silent house.
"Damn," Ed muttered. "Wake up the whole block." He dried his face, listening. Was
somebody coming?
A vibration. Then
The doorbell rang.

61

Ed came out of the bathroom. Who could it be? Had Ruth forgotten something? He tossed on
a white shirt and opened the front door.
A bright young man, face bland and eager, beamed happily at him. "Good morning, sir." He
tipped his hat. "I'm sorry to bother you so early"
"What do you want?"
"I'm from the Federal Life Insurance Company. I'm here to see you about"
Ed pushed the door closed. "Don't want any. I'm in a rush. Have to get to work."
"Your wife said this was the only time I could catch you." The young man picked up his
briefcase, easing the door open again. "She especially asked me to come this early. We don't
usually begin our work at this time, but since she asked me, I made a special note about it"
"Okay." Sighing wearily, Ed admitted the young man. "You can explain your policy while I
get dressed."
The young man opened his briefcase on the couch, laying out heaps of pamphlets and
illustrated folders. "I'd like to show you some of these figures, if I may. It's of great
importance to you and your family to"
Ed found himself sitting down, going over the pamphlets. He purchased a ten-thousand-dollar
policy on his own life and then eased the young man out. He looked at the clock. Practically
nine-thirty!
"Damn." He'd be late to work. He finished fastening his tie, grabbed his coat, turned off the
oven and the lights, dumped the dishes in the sink, and ran out on the porch.
As he hurried toward the bus stop he was cursing inwardly. Life insurance salesmen. Why did
the jerk have to come just as he was getting ready to leave?
Ed groaned. No telling what the consequences would be, getting to the office late. He
wouldn't get there until almost ten. He set himself in anticipation. A sixth sense told him he
was in for it. Something bad. It was the wrong day to be late.
If only the salesman hadn't come.

Ed hopped off the bus a block from his office. He began walking rapidly. The huge clock in
front of Stein's Jewelry Store told him it was almost ten.
His heart sank. Old Douglas would give him hell for sure. He could see it now. Douglas
puffing and blowing, red-faced, waving his thick finger at him; Miss Evans, smiling behind
her typewriter; Jackie, the office boy, grinning and snickering; Earl Hendricks; Joe and Tom;
Mary, dark-eyed, full bosom and long lashes. All of them, kidding him the whole rest of the
day.

62

He came to the corner and stopped for the light. On the other side of the street rose the big
white concrete building, the towering column of steel and cement, girders and glass
windowsthe office building. Ed flinched. Maybe he could say the elevator got stuck.
Somewhere between the second and third floor.
The street light changed. Nobody else was crossing. Ed crossed alone. He hopped up on the
curb on the far side
And stopped, rigid.
The sun had winked off. One moment it was beaming down. Then it was gone. Ed looked
sharply up. Gray clouds swirled above him. Huge, formless clouds. Nothing more. An
ominous, thick haze that made everything waver and dim. Uneasy chills plucked at him. What
was it?
He advanced cautiously, feeling his way through the mist. Everything was silent. No
soundsnot even the traffic sounds. Ed peered frantically around, trying to see through the
rolling haze. No people. No cars. No sun. Nothing.
The office building loomed up ahead, ghostly. It was an indistinct gray. He put out his hand
uncertainly
A section of the building fell away. It rained down, a torrent of particles. Like sand. Ed gaped
foolishly. A cascade of gray debris, spilling around his feet. And where he had touched the
building, a jagged cavity yawnedan ugly pit marring the concrete.
Dazed, he made his way to the front steps. He mounted them. The steps gave way underfoot.
His feet sank down. He was wading through shifting sand, weak, rotted stuff that broke under
his weight.
He got into the lobby. The lobby was dim and obscure. The overhead lights flickered feebly in
the gloom. An unearthly pall hung over everything.
He spied the cigar stand. The seller leaned silently, resting on the counter, toothpick between
his teeth, his face vacant. And gray. He was gray all over.
"Hey," Ed croaked. "What's going on?"
The seller did not answer. Ed reached out toward him. His hand touched the seller's gray
armand passed right through.
"Good God," Ed said.
The seller's arm came loose. It fell to the lobby floor, disintegrating into fragments. Bits of
gray fiber. Like dust. Ed's senses reeled.
"Help!" he shouted, finding his voice.
No answer. He peered around. A few shapes stood here and there: a man reading a newspaper,
two women waiting at the elevator.

63

Ed made his way over to the man. He reached out and touched him.
The man slowly collapsed. He settled into a heap, a loose pile of gray ash. Dust. Particles. The
two women dissolved when he touched them. Silently. They made no sound as they broke
apart.
Ed found the stairs. He grabbed hold of the bannister and climbed. The stairs collapsed under
him. He hurried faster. Behind him lay a broken pathhis footprints clearly visible in the
concrete. Clouds of ash blew around him as he reached the second floor.
He gazed down the silent corridor. He saw more clouds of ash. He heard no sound. There was
just darknessrolling darkness.
He climbed unsteadily to the third floor. Once, his shoe broke completely through the stair.
For a sickening second he hung, poised over a yawning hole that looked down into a
bottomless nothing.
Then he climbed on, and emerged in front of his own office: DOUGLAS AND BLAKE,
REAL ESTATE.
The hall was dim, gloomy with clouds of ash. The overhead lights flickered fitfully. He
reached for the door handle. The handle came off in his hand. He dropped it and dug his
fingernails into the door. The plate glass crashed past him, breaking into bits. He tore the door
open and stepped over it, into the office.
Miss Evans sat at her typewriter, fingers resting quietly on the keys. She did not move. She
was gray, her hair, her skin, her clothing. She was without color. Ed touched her. His fingers
went through her shoulder, into dry flakiness.
He drew back, sickened. Miss Evans did not stir.
He moved on. He pushed against a desk. The desk collapsed into rotting dust. Earl Hendricks
stood by the water cooler, a cup in his hand. He was a gray statue, unmoving. Nothing stirred.
No sound. No life. The whole office was gray dustwithout life or motion.
Ed found himself out in the corridor again. He shook his head, dazed. What did it mean? Was
he going out of his mind? Was he?
A sound.
Ed turned, peering into the gray mist. A creature was coming, hurrying rapidly. A mana
man in a white robe. Behind him others came. Men in white, with equipment. They were
lugging complex machinery.
"Hey" Ed gasped weakly.
The men stopped. Their mouths opened. Their eyes popped.
"Look!"

64

"Something's gone wrong!"
"One still charged."
"Get the de-energizer."
"We can't proceed until"
The men came toward Ed, moving around him. One lugged a long hose with some sort of
nozzle. A portable cart came wheeling up. Instructions were rapidly shouted.
Ed broke out of his paralysis. Fear swept over him. Panic. Something hideous was happening.
He had to get out. Warn people. Get away.
He turned and ran, back down the stairs. The stairs collapsed under him. He fell half a flight,
rolling in heaps of dry ash. He got to his feet and hurried on, down to the ground floor.
The lobby was lost in the clouds of gray ash. He pushed blindly through, toward the door.
Behind him, the white-clad men were coming, dragging their equipment and shouting to each
other, hurrying quickly after him.
He reached the sidewalk. Behind him the office building wavered and sagged, sinking to one
side, torrents of ash raining down in heaps. He raced toward the corner, the men just behind
him. Gray clouds swirled around him. He groped his way across the street, hands
outstretched. He gained the opposite curb
The sun winked on. Warm yellow sunlight streamed down on him. Cars honked. Traffic lights
changed. On all sides men and women in bright spring clothes hurried and pushed: shoppers,
a blue-clad cop, salesmen with briefcases. Stores, windows, signs ... noisy cars moving up and
down the street ...
And overhead was the bright sun and familiar blue sky.
Ed halted, gasping for breath. He turned and looked back the way he had come. Across the
street was the office buildingas it had always been. Firm and distinct. Concrete and glass
and steel.
He stepped back a pace and collided with a hurrying citizen. "Hey," the man grunted. "Watch
it."
"Sorry." Ed shook his head, trying to clear it. From where he stood, the office building looked
like always, big and solemn and substantial, rising up imposingly on the other side of the
street.
But a minute ago
Maybe he was out of his mind. He had seen the building crumbling into dust. Buildingand
people. They had fallen into gray clouds of dust. And the men in whitethey had chased him.
Men in white robes, shouting orders, wheeling complex equipment.

65

He was out of his mind. There was no other explanation. Weakly, Ed turned and stumbled
along the sidewalk, his mind reeling. He moved blindly, without purpose, lost in a haze of
confusion and terror.

The Clerk was brought into the top-level Administrative chambers and told to wait.
He paced back and forth nervously, clasping and wringing his hands in an agony of
apprehension. He took off his glasses and wiped them shakily.
Lord. All the trouble and grief. And it wasn't his fault. But he would have to take the rap. It
was his responsibility to get the Summoners routed out and their instructions followed. The
miserable flea-infested Summoner had gone back to sleepand he would have to answer for
it.
The doors opened. "All right," a voice murmured, preoccupied. It was a tired, care-worn
voice. The Clerk trembled and entered slowly, sweat dripping down his neck into his celluloid
collar.
The Old Man glanced up, laying aside his book. He studied the Clerk calmly, his faded blue
eyes milda deep, ancient mildness that made the Clerk tremble even more. He took out his
handkerchief and mopped his brow.
"I understand there was a mistake," the Old Man murmured. "In connection with Sector T137.
Something to do with an element from an adjoining area."
"That's right." The Clerk's voice was faint and husky. "Very unfortunate."
"What exactly occurred?"
"I started out this morning with my instruction sheets. The material relating to T137 had top
priority, of course. I served notice on the Summoner in my area that an eight-fifteen summons
was required."
"Did the Summoner understand the urgency?"
"Yes, sir." The Clerk hesitated. "But"
"But what?"
The Clerk twisted miserably. "While my back was turned the Summoner crawled back in his
shed and went to sleep. I was occupied, checking the exact time with my watch. I called the
momentbut there was no response."
"You called at eight-fifteen exactly?"
"Yes, sir! Exactly eight-fifteen. But the Summoner was asleep. By the time I managed to
arouse him it was eight-sixteen. He summoned, but instead of A Friend with a Car we got a
A Life Insurance Salesman." The Clerk's face screwed up with disgust. "The Salesman kept
the element there until almost nine-thirty. Therefore he was late to work instead of early."

66

For a moment the Old Man was silent. "Then the element was not within T137 when the
adjustment began."
"No. He arrived about ten o'clock."
"During the middle of the adjustment." The Old Man got to his feet and paced slowly back
and forth, face grim, hands behind his back. His long robe flowed out behind him. "A serious
matter. During a Sector Adjustment all related elements from other Sectors must be included.
Otherwise, their orientations remain out of phase. When this element entered T137 the
adjustment had been in progress fifty minutes. The element encountered the Sector at its most
de-energized stage. He wandered about until one of the adjustment teams met him."
"Did they catch him?"
"Unfortunately no. He fled, out of the Sector. Into a nearby fully energized area."
"Whatwhat then?"
The Old Man stopped pacing, his lined face grim. He ran a heavy hand through his long white
hair. "We do not know. We lost contact with him. We will reestablish contact soon, of course.
But for the moment he is out of control."
"What are you going to do?"
"He must be contacted and contained. He must be brought up here. There's no other solution."
"Up here!"
"It is too late to de-energize him. By the time he is regained he will have told others. To wipe
his mind clean would only complicate matters. Usual methods will not suffice. I must deal
with this problem myself."
"I hope he's located quickly," the Clerk said.
"He will be. Every Watcher is alerted. Every Watcher and every Summoner." The Old Man's
eyes twinkled. "Even the Clerks, although we hesitate to count on them."
The Clerk flushed. "I'll be glad when this thing is over," he muttered.

Ruth came tripping down the stairs and out of the building, into the hot noonday sun. She lit a
cigarette and hurried along the walk, her small bosom rising and falling as she breathed in the
spring air.
"Ruth." Ed stepped up behind her.
"Ed!" She spun, gasping in astonishment. "What are you doing away from?"
"Come on." Ed grabbed her arm, pulling her along. "Let's keep moving."

67

"But what?"
"I'll tell you later." Ed's face was pale and grim. "Let's go where we can talk. In private."
"I was going down to have lunch at Louie's. We can talk there." Ruth hurried along
breathlessly. "What is it? What's happened? You look so strange. And why aren't you at
work? Did youdid you get fired?"
They crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. Men and women milled around, getting
their lunch. Ed found a table in the back, secluded in a corner. "Here." He sat down abruptly.
"This will do." She slid into the other chair.
Ed ordered a cup of coffee. Ruth had salad and creamed tuna on toast, coffee and peach pie.
Silently, Ed watched her as she ate, his face dark and moody.
"Please tell me," Ruth begged.
"You really want to know?"
"Of course I want to know!" Ruth put her small hand anxiously on his. "I'm your wife."
"Something happened today. This morning. I was late to work. A damn insurance man came
by and held me up. I was half an hour late."
Ruth caught her breath. "Douglas fired you."
"No." Ed ripped a paper napkin slowly into bits. He stuffed the bits in the half-empty water
glass. "I was worried as hell. I got off the bus and hurried down the street. I noticed it when I
stepped up on the curb in front of the office."
"Noticed what?"
Ed told her. The whole works. Everything.
When he had finished, Ruth sat back, her face white, hands trembling. "I see," she murmured.
"No wonder you're upset." She drank a little cold coffee, the cup rattling against the saucer.
"What a terrible thing."
Ed leaned intently toward his wife. "Ruth. Do you think I'm going crazy?"
Ruth's red lips twisted. "I don't know what to say. It's so strange..."
"Yeah. Strange is hardly the word for it. I poked my hands right through them. Like they were
clay. Old dry clay. Dust. Dust figures." Ed lit a cigarette from Ruth's pack. "When I got out I
looked back and there it was. The office building. Like always."
"You were afraid Mr. Douglas would bawl you out, weren't you?"
"Sure. I was afraidand guilty." Ed's eyes flickered. "I know what you're thinking. I was late
and I couldn't face him. So I had some sort of protective psychotic fit. Retreat from reality."

68

He stubbed the cigarette out savagely. "Ruth, I've been wandering around town since. Two
and a half hours. Sure, I'm afraid. I'm afraid like hell to go back."
"Of Douglas?"
"No! The men in white." Ed shuddered. "God. Chasing me. With their damn hoses andand
equipment."
Ruth was silent. Finally she looked up at her husband, her dark eyes bright. "You have to go
back, Ed."
"Back? Why?"
"To prove something."
"Prove what?"
"Prove it's all right." Ruth's hand pressed against his. "You have to, Ed. You have to go back
and face it. To show yourself there's nothing to be afraid of."
"The hell with it! After what I saw? Listen, Ruth. I saw the fabric of reality split open. I
sawbehind. Underneath. I saw what was really there. And I don't want to go back. I don't
want to see dust people again. Ever."
Ruth's eyes were fixed intently on him. "I'll go back with you," she said.
"For God's sake."
"For your sake. For your sanity. So you'll know." Ruth got abruptly to her feet, pulling her
coat around her. "Come on, Ed. I'll go with you. We'll go up there together. To the office of
Douglas and Blake, Real Estate. I'll even go in with you to see Mr. Douglas."
Ed got up slowly, staring hard at his wife. "You think I blacked out. Cold feet. Couldn't face
the boss." His voice was low and strained. "Don't you?"
Ruth was already threading her way toward the cashier. "Come on. You'll see. It'll all be
there. Just like it always was."
"Okay," Ed said. He followed her slowly. "We'll go back thereand see which of us is right."

They crossed the street together, Ruth holding on tight to Ed's arm. Ahead of them was the
building, the towering structure of concrete and metal and glass.
"There it is," Ruth said. "See?"
There it was, all right. The big building rose up, firm and solid, glittering in the early
afternoon sun, its windows sparkling brightly.

69

Ed and Ruth stepped up onto the curb. Ed tensed himself, his body rigid. He winced as his
foot touched the pavement
But nothing happened: the street noises continued; cars, people hurrying past; a kid selling
papers. There were sounds, smells, the noises of the city in the middle of the day. And
overhead was the sun and the bright blue sky.
"See?" Ruth said. "I was right."
They walked up the front steps, into the lobby. Behind the cigar stand the seller stood, arms
folded, listening to the ball game. "Hi, Mr. Fletcher," he called to Ed. His face lit up good-
naturedly. "Who's the dame? Your wife know about this?"
Ed laughed unsteadily. They passed on toward the elevator. Four or five businessmen stood
waiting. They were middle-aged men, well dressed, waiting impatiently in a bunch. "Hey,
Fletcher," one said. "Where you been all day? Douglas is yelling his head off."
"Hello, Earl," Ed muttered. He gripped Ruth's arm. "Been a little sick."
The elevator came. They got in. The elevator rose. "Hi, Ed," the elevator operator said.
"Who's the good-looking gal? Why don't you introduce her around?"
Ed grinned mechanically. "My wife."
The elevator let them off at the third floor. Ed and Ruth got out, heading toward the glass door
of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate.
Ed halted, breathing shallowly. "Wait." He licked his lips. "I"
Ruth waited calmly as Ed wiped his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. "All right
now?"
"Yeah." Ed moved forward. He pulled open the glass door.
Miss Evans glanced up, ceasing her typing. "Ed Fletcher! Where on earth have you been?"
"I've been sick. Hello, Tom."
Tom glanced up from his work. "Hi, Ed. Say, Douglas is yelling for your scalp. Where have
you been?"
"I know." Ed turned wearily to Ruth. "I guess I better go in and face the music."
Ruth squeezed his arm. "You'll be all right. I know." She smiled, a relieved flash of white
teeth and red lips. "Okay? Call me if you need me."
"Sure." Ed kissed her briefly on the mouth. "Thanks, honey. Thanks a lot. I don't know what
the hell went wrong with me. I guess it's over."

70

"Forget it. So long." Ruth skipped back out of the office, the door closing after her. Ed
listened to her race down the hall to the elevator.
"Nice little gal," Jackie said appreciatively.
"Yeah." Ed nodded, straightening his necktie. He moved unhappily toward the inner office,
steeling himself. Well, he had to face it. Ruth was right. But he was going to have a hell of a
time explaining it to the boss. He could see Douglas now, thick red wattles, big bull roar, face
distorted with rage
Ed stopped abruptly at the entrance to the inner office. He froze rigid. The inner officeit
was changed.

The hackles of his neck rose. Cold fear gripped him, clutching at his windpipe. The inner
office was different. He turned his head slowly, taking in the sight: the desks, chairs, fixtures,
file cabinets, pictures.
Changes. Little changes. Subtle. Ed closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He was alert,
breathing rapidly, his pulse racing. It was changed, all right. No doubt about it.
"What's the matter, Ed?" Tom asked. The staff watched him curiously, pausing in their work.
Ed said nothing. He advanced slowly into the inner office. The office had been gone over. He
could tell. Things had been altered. Rearranged. Nothing obviousnothing he could put his
finger on. But he could tell.
Joe Kent greeted him uneasily. "What's the matter, Ed? You look like a wild dog. Is
something?"
Ed studied Joe. He was different. Not the same. What was it?
Joe's face. It was a little fuller. His shirt was blue-striped. Joe never wore blue stripes. Ed
examined Joe's desk. He saw papers and accounts. The deskit was too far to the right. And
it was bigger. It wasn't the same desk.
The picture on the wall. It wasn't the same. It was a different picture entirely. And the things
on top of the file cabinetsome were new, others were gone.
He looked back through the door. Now that he thought about it, Miss Evans' hair was
different, done a different way. And it was lighter.
In here, Mary, filing her nails, over by the windowshe was taller, fuller. Her purse, lying on
the desk in front of hera red purse, red knit.
"You always...have that purse?" Ed demanded.
Mary glanced up. "What?"
"That purse. You always have that?"

71

Mary laughed. She smoothed her skirt coyly around her shapely thighs, her long lashes
blinking modestly. "Why, Mr. Fletcher. What do you mean?"
Ed turned away. He knew. Even if she didn't. She had been redonechanged: her purse, her
clothes, her figure, everything about her. None of them knewbut him. His mind spun
dizzily. They were all changed. All of them were different. They had all been remolded,
recast. Subtlybut it was there.
The wastebasket. It was smaller, not the same. The window shadeswhite, not ivory. The
wall paper was not the same pattern. The lighting fixtures...
Endless, subtle changes.
Ed made his way back to the inner office. He lifted his hand and knocked on Douglas' door.
"Come in."
Ed pushed the door open. Nathan Douglas looked up impatiently. "Mr. Douglas" Ed began.
He came into the room unsteadilyand stopped.
Douglas was not the same. Not at all. His whole office was changed: the rugs, the drapes. The
desk was oak, not mahogany. And Douglas himself...
Douglas was younger, thinner. His hair, brown. His skin not so red. His face smoother. No
wrinkles. Chin reshaped. Eyes green, not black. He was a different man. But still Douglasa
different Douglas. A different version!
"What is it?" Douglas demanded impatiently. "Oh, it's you, Fletcher. Where were you this
morning?"
Ed backed out. Fast.
He slammed the door and hurried back through the inner office. Tom and Miss Evans glanced
up, startled. Ed passed by them, grabbing the hall door open.
"Hey!" Tom called. "What?"
Ed hurried down the hall. Terror leaped through him. He had to hurry. He had seen. There
wasn't much time. He came to the elevator and stabbed the button.
No time.
He ran to the stairs and started down. He reached the second floor. His terror grew. It was a
matter of seconds.
Seconds!
The public phone. Ed ran into the phone booth. He dragged the door shut after him. Wildly,
he dropped a dime in the slot and dialed. He had to call the police. He held the receiver to his
ear, his heart pounding.

72

Warn them. Changes. Somebody tampering with reality. Altering it. He had been right. The
white-clad men...their equipment...going through the building.
"Hello!" Ed shouted hoarsely. There was no answer. No hum. Nothing.
Ed peered frantically out the door.
And he sagged, defeated. Slowly, he hung up the telephone receiver.
He was no longer on the second floor. The phone booth was rising, leaving the second floor
behind, carrying him up, faster and faster. It rose floor by floor, moving silently, swiftly.
The phone booth passed through the ceiling of the building and out into the bright sunlight. It
gained speed. The ground fell away below. Buildings and streets were getting smaller each
moment. Tiny specks hurried along, far below, cars and people, dwindling rapidly.
Clouds drifted between him and the earth. Ed shut his eyes, dizzy with fright. He held on
desperately to the door handles of the phone booth.
Faster and faster the phone booth climbed. The earth was rapidly being left behind, far below.
Ed peered up wildly. Where? Where was he going? Where was it taking him?
He stood gripping the door handles, waiting.

The Clerk nodded curtly. "That's him, all right. The element in question."
Ed Fletcher looked around him. He was in a huge chamber. The edges fell away into
indistinct shadows. In front of him stood a man with notes and ledgers under his arm, peering
at him through steel-rimmed glasses. He was a nervous little man, sharp-eyed, with celluloid
collar, blue-serge suit, vest, watch chain. He wore black shiny shoes.
And beyond him
An old man sat quietly, in an immense modern chair. He watched Fletcher calmly, his blue
eyes mild and tired. A strange thrill shot through Fletcher. It was not fear. Rather it was a
vibration, rattling his bonesa deep sense of awe, tinged with fascination.
"Wherewhat is this place?" he asked faintly. He was still dazed from his quick ascent.
"Don't ask questions!" the nervous little man snapped angrily, tapping his pencil against his
ledgers. "You're here to answer, not ask."
The Old Man moved a little. He raised his hand. "I will speak to the element alone," he
murmured. His voice was low. It vibrated and rumbled through the chamber. Again the wave
of fascinated awe swept Ed.

73

"Alone?" The little fellow backed away, gathering his books and papers in his arms. "Of
course." He glanced hostilely at Ed Fletcher. "I'm glad he's finally in custody. All the work
and trouble just for"
He disappeared through a door. The door closed softly behind him. Ed and the Old Man were
alone.
"Please sit down," the Old Man said.
Ed found a seat. He sat down awkwardly, nervously. He got out his cigarettes and then put
them away again.
"What's wrong?" the Old Man asked.
"I'm just beginning to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That I'm dead."
The Old Man smiled briefly. "Dead? No, you're not dead. You're...visiting. An unusual event,
but necessitated by circumstances." He leaned toward Ed. "Mr. Fletcher, you have got
yourself involved in something."
"Yeah," Ed agreed. "I wish I knew what it was. Or how it happened."
"It was not your fault. You're the victim of a clerical error. A mistake was madenot by you.
But involving you."
"What mistake?" Ed rubbed his forehead wearily. "II got in on something. I saw through. I
saw something I wasn't supposed to see."
The Old Man nodded. "That's right. You saw something you were not supposed to see
something few elements have been aware of, let alone witnessed."
"Elements?"
"An official term. Let it pass. A mistake was made, but we hope to rectify it. It is my hope
that"
"Those people," Ed interrupted. "Heaps of dry ash. And gray. Like they were dead. Only it
was everything: the stairs and walls and floor. No color or life."
"That Sector had been temporarily de-energized. So the adjustment team could enter and
effect changes."
"Changes." Ed nodded. "That's right. When I went back later, everything was alive again. But
not the same. It was all different."

74

"The adjustment was complete by noon. The team finished its work and re-energized the
Sector."
"I see," Ed muttered.
"You were supposed to have been in the Sector when the adjustment began. Because of an
error you were not. You came into the Sector lateduring the adjustment itself. You fled, and
when you returned it was over. You saw, and you should not have seen. Instead of a witness
you should have been part of the adjustment. Like the others, you should have undergone
changes."
Sweat came out on Ed Fletcher's head. He wiped it away. His stomach turned over. Weakly,
he cleared his throat. "I get the picture." His voice was almost inaudible. A chilling
premonition moved through him. "I was supposed to be changed like the others. But I guess
something went wrong."
"Something went wrong. An error occurred. And now a serious problem exists. You have
seen these things. You know a great deal. And you are not coordinated with the new
configuration."
"Gosh," Ed muttered. "Well, I won't tell anybody." Cold sweat poured off him. "You can
count on that. I'm as good as changed."
"You have already told someone," the Old Man said coldly.
"Me?" Ed blinked. "Who?"
"Your wife."
Ed trembled. The color drained from his face, leaving it sickly white. "That's right. I did."
"Your wife knows." The Old Man's face twisted angrily. "A woman. Of all the things to tell
"
"I didn't know." Ed retreated, panic leaping through him. "But I know now. You can count on
me. Consider me changed."
The ancient blue eyes bored keenly into him, peering far into his depths. "And you were going
to call the police. You wanted to inform the authorities."
"But I didn't know who was doing the changing."
"Now you know. The natural process must be supplementedadjusted here and there.
Corrections must be made. We are fully licensed to make such corrections. Our adjustment
teams perform vital work."
Ed plucked up a measure of courage. "This particular adjustment. Douglas. The office. What
was it for? I'm sure it was some worthwhile purpose."

75

The Old Man waved his hand. Behind him in the shadows an immense map glowed into
existence. Ed caught his breath. The edges of the map faded off in obscurity. He saw an
infinite web of detailed sections, a network of squares and ruled lines. Each square was
marked. Some glowed with a blue light. The lights altered constantly.
"The Sector Board," the Old Man said. He sighed wearily. "A staggering job. Sometimes we
wonder how we can go on another period. But it must be done. For the good of all. For your
good."
"The change. In ourour Sector."
"Your office deals in real estate. The old Douglas was a shrewd man, but rapidly becoming
infirm. His physical health was waning. In a few days Douglas will be offered a chance to
purchase a large unimproved forest area in western Canada. It will require most of his assets.
The older, less virile Douglas would have hesitated. It is imperative he not hesitate. He must
purchase the area and clear the land at once. Only a younger mana younger Douglas
would undertake this.
"When the land is cleared, certain anthropological remains will be discovered. They have
already been placed there. Douglas will lease his land to the Canadian Government for
scientific study. The remains found there will cause international excitement in learned
circles.
"A chain of events will be set in motion. Men from numerous countries will come to Canada
to examine the remains. Soviet, Polish, and Czech scientists will make the journey.
"The chain of events will draw these scientists together for the first time in years. National
research will be temporarily forgotten in the excitement of these non-national discoveries.
One of the leading Soviet scientists will make friends with a Belgian scientist. Before they
depart they will agree to correspondwithout the knowledge of their governments, of course.
"The circle will widen. Other scientists on both sides will be drawn in. A society will be
founded. More and more educated men will transfer an increasing amount of time to this
international society. Purely national research will suffer a slight but extremely critical
eclipse. The war tension will somewhat wane.
"This alteration is vital. And it is dependent on the purchase and clearing of the section of
wilderness in Canada. The old Douglas would not have dared take the risk. But the altered
Douglas, and his altered, more youthful staff, will pursue this work with wholehearted
enthusiasm. And from this, the vital chain of widening events will come about. The
beneficiaries will be you. Our methods may seem strange and indirect. Even
incomprehensible. But I assure you we know what we're doing."
"I know that now," Ed said.
"So you do. You know a great deal. Much too much. No element should possess such
knowledge. I should perhaps call an adjustment team in here..."

76

A picture formed in Ed's mind: swirling gray clouds, gray men and women. He shuddered.
"Look," he croaked. "I'll do anything. Anything at all. Only don't de-energize me." Sweat ran
down his face. "Okay?"
The Old Man pondered. "Perhaps some alternative could be found. There is another
possibility..."
"What?" Ed asked eagerly. "What is it?"
The Old Man spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "If I allow you to return, you will swear never to
speak of the matter? Will you swear not to reveal to anyone the things you saw? The things
you know?"
"Sure!" Ed gasped eagerly, blinding relief flooding over him. "I swear!"
"Your wife. She must know nothing more. She must think it was only a passing psychological
fitretreat from reality."
"She thinks that already."
"She must continue to."
Ed set his jaw firmly. "I'll see that she continues to think it was a mental aberration. She'll
never know what really happened."
"You are certain you can keep the truth from her?"
"Sure," Ed said confidently. "I know I can."
"All right." The Old Man nodded slowly. "I will send you back. But you must tell no one." He
swelled visibly. "Remember: you will eventually come back to meeveryone does, in the
endand your fate will not be enviable."
"I won't tell her," Ed said, sweating. "I promise. You have my word on that. I can handle
Ruth. Don't give it a second thought."

Ed arrived home at sunset.
He blinked, dazed from the rapid descent. For a moment he stood on the pavement, regaining
his balance and catching his breath. Then he walked quickly up the path.
He pushed the door open and entered the little green stucco house.
"Ed!" Ruth came flying, face distorted with tears. She threw her arms around him, hugging
him tight. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Been?" Ed murmured. "At the office, of course."
Ruth pulled back abruptly. "No, you haven't."

77

Vague tendrils of alarm plucked at Ed. "Of course I have. Where else?"
"I called Douglas about three. He said you left. You walked out, practically as soon as I
turned my back. Eddie"
Ed patted her nervously. "Take it easy, honey." He began unbuttoning his coat. "Everything's
okay. Understand? Things are perfectly all right."
Ruth sat down on the arm of the couch. She blew her nose, dabbing at her eyes. "If you knew
how much I've worried." She put her handkerchief away and folded her arms. "I want to know
where you were."
Uneasily, Ed hung his coat in the closet. He came over and kissed her. Her lips were ice cold.
"I'll tell you all about it. But what do you say we have something to eat? I'm starved."
Ruth studied him intently. She got down from the arm of the couch. "I'll change and fix
dinner."
She hurried into the bedroom and slipped off her shoes and nylons. Ed followed her. "I didn't
mean to worry you," he said carefully. "After you left me today I realized you were right."
"Oh?" Ruth unfastened her blouse and skirt, arranging them over a hanger. "Right about
what?"
"About me." He manufactured a grin and made it glow across his face. "About...what
happened."
Ruth hung her slip over the hanger. She studied her husband intently as she struggled into her
tight-fitting jeans. "Go on."
The moment had come. It was now or never. Ed Fletcher braced himself and chose his words
carefully. "I realized," he stated, "that the whole darn thing was in my mind. You were right,
Ruth. Completely right. And I even realize what caused it."
Ruth rolled her cotton T-shirt down and tucked it in her jeans. "What was the cause?"
"Overwork."
"Overwork?"
"I need a vacation. I haven't had a vacation in years. My mind isn't on my job. I've been
daydreaming." He said it firmly, but his heart was in his mouth. "I need to get away. To the
mountains. Bass fishing. Or" He searched his mind frantically. "Or"
Ruth came toward him ominously. "Ed!" she said sharply. "Look at me!"
"What's the matter?" Panic shot through him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Where were you this afternoon?"

78

Ed's grin faded. "I told you. I went for a walk. Didn't I tell you? A walk. To think things
over."
"Don't lie to me, Eddie Fletcher! I can tell when you're lying!" Fresh tears welled up in Ruth's
eyes. Her breasts rose and fell excitedly under her cotton shirt. "Admit it! You didn't go for a
walk!"
Ed stammered weakly. Sweat poured off him. He sagged helplessly against the door. "What
do you mean?"
Ruth's black eyes flashed with anger. "Come on! I want to know where you were! Tell me! I
have a right to know. What really happened?"
Ed retreated in terror, his resolve melting like wax. It was going all wrong. "Honest. I went
out for a"
"Tell me!" Ruth's sharp fingernails dug into his arm. "I want to know where you wereand
who you were with!"
Ed opened his mouth. He tried to grin, but his face failed to respond. "I don't know what you
mean."
"You know what I mean. Who were you with? Where did you go? Tell me! I'll find out,
sooner or later."
There was no way out. He was lickedand he knew it. He couldn't keep it from her.
Desperately he stalled, praying for time. If he could only distract her, get her mind on
something else. If she would only let up, even for a second. He could invent somethinga
better story. Timehe needed more time. "Ruth, you've got to"
Suddenly there was a sound: the bark of a dog, echoing through the dark house.
Ruth let go, cocking her head alertly. "That was Dobbie. I think somebody's coming."
The doorbell rang.
"You stay here. I'll be right back." Ruth ran out of the room, to the front door. "Darn it." She
pulled the front door open.
"Good evening!" The young man stepped quickly inside, loaded down with objects, grinning
broadly at Ruth. "I'm from the Sweep-Rite Vacuum Cleaner Company."
Ruth scowled impatiently. "Really, we're about to sit down at the table."
"Oh, this will only take a moment." The young man set down the vacuum cleaner and its
attachments with a metallic crash. Rapidly, he unrolled a long illustrated banner, showing the
vacuum cleaner in action. "Now, if you'll just hold this while I plug in the cleaner"
He bustled happily about, unplugging the TV set, plugging in the cleaner, pushing the chairs
out of his way.

79

"I'll show you the drape scraper first." He attached a hose and nozzle to the big gleaming tank.
"Now, if you'll just sit down I'll demonstrate each of these easy-to-use attachments." His
happy voice rose over the roar of the cleaner. "You'll notice"

Ed Fletcher sat down on the bed. He groped in his pocket until he found his cigarettes.
Shakily he lit one and leaned back against the wall, weak with relief.
He gazed up, a look of gratitude on his face. "Thanks," he said softly. "I think we'll make it
after all. Thanks a lot."
THE END

This is a collection of 26 short stories written
by Philip K Dick, the writer behind movies like
"Blade Runner" (1982), "Total Recall" (1990),
"Screamers" (1995), "Minority Report" (2002),
"Next" (2007) and "The Adjustment Bureau"
(2011), just to mention a few. That means -
High quality Sci-Fi from cover to cover in
other words!
704 pages.
ISBN: 9781300388753

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80

Philip K. Dick
Philip Kindred Dick (December 16, 1928
March 2, 1982) was an American novelist,
short story writer, essayist and philosopher
whose published work is almost entirely
accepted as being in the science fiction
genre. Dick explored sociological, political
and metaphysical themes in novels
dominated by monopolistic corporations,
authoritarian governments, and altered states.
In his later works Dick's thematic focus
strongly reflected his personal interest in
metaphysics and theology. He often drew
upon his own life experiences in addressing
the nature of drug abuse, paranoia,
schizophrenia, and transcendental
experiences in novels such as A Scanner
Darkly and VALIS. He also wrote extensively
on philosophy, theology, nature of reality,
science and metaphysics later in his life that
was published posthumously as The
Exegesis, arguably his non-fiction magnum
opus.
The novel The Man in the High Castle bridged the genres of alternate history and science
fiction, earning Dick a Hugo Award for Best Novel in 1963. Flow My Tears, the Policeman
Said, a novel about a celebrity who awakens in a parallel universe where he is unknown, won
the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel in 1975. "I want to write about people
I love, and put them into a fictional world spun out of my own mind, not the world we
actually have, because the world we actually have does not meet my standards," Dick wrote
of these stories. "In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real,
and I wonder out loud if all of us are real."
In addition to 44 published novels, Dick wrote approximately 121 short stories, most of which
appeared in science fiction magazines during his lifetime. Although Dick spent most of his
career as a writer in near-poverty, eleven popular films based on his works have been
produced, including Blade Runner, Total Recall, A Scanner Darkly, Minority Report,
Paycheck, Next, Screamers, The Adjustment Bureau and Impostor. In 2005, Time magazine
named Ubik one of the hundred greatest English-language novels published since 1923. In
2007, Dick became the first science fiction writer to be included in The Library of America
series.
Personal life
Philip Kindred Dick and his twin sister, Jane Charlotte Dick, were born six weeks
prematurely on December 16, 1928, in Chicago, Illinois, to Dorothy Kindred Dick and Joseph
Edgar Dick, who worked for the United States Department of Agriculture. The death of Jane,
six weeks later on January 26, 1929, profoundly affected Philip's life, leading to the recurrent
motif of the "phantom twin" in his books.

81

The family moved to the San Francisco Bay Area. When Philip turned five, his father was
transferred to Reno, Nevada. When Dorothy refused to move, she and Joseph divorced. Both
parents fought for custody of Philip, which was awarded to the mother. Dorothy, determined
to raise Philip alone, took a job in Washington, D.C., and moved there with her son. Philip
was enrolled at John Eaton Elementary School (193638), completing the second through
fourth grades. His lowest grade was a "C" in Written Composition, although a teacher
remarked that he "shows interest and ability in story telling." He was educated in Quaker
schools. In June 1938, Dorothy and Philip returned to California, and it was around this time
that he became interested in science fiction. Dick states that, in 1940, at the age of twelve, he
read his first science fiction magazine, "Stirring Science Stories".
Dick attended Berkeley High School in Berkeley, California. He and fellow science fiction
author Ursula K. Le Guin were members of the same graduating class (1947) but did not
know each other at the time. After graduation, he briefly attended the University of California,
Berkeley, (September 1949 to November 11, 1949) with an honorary dismissal granted
January 1, 1950. Dick did not declare a major and took classes in History, Psychology,
Philosophy, and Zoology. Through his studies in Philosophy, he believed that existence is
based on the internal-based perception of a human, which does not necessarily correspond to
external reality; he described himself as "a cosmic panentheist," believing in the universe only
as an extension of God. After reading the works of Plato and pondering the possibilities of
metaphysical realms, Dick came to the conclusion that, in a certain sense, the world is not
entirely real and there is no way to confirm whether it is truly there. This question from his
early studies persisted as a theme in many of his novels. Dick dropped out because of ongoing
anxiety problems, according to his third wife Anne's memoir. She also says he disliked the
mandatory ROTC training. At Berkeley, Dick befriended poet Robert Duncan and poet and
linguist Jack Spicer, who gave Dick ideas for a Martian language. Dick claimed to have been
host of a classical music program on KSMO Radio in 1947.
From 1948 to 1952, Dick worked at Art Music Company, a record store on Telegraph
Avenue. In 1955, he and his second wife, Kleo Apostolides, received a visit from the FBI,
which they believed to be the result of Kleo's socialist views and left-wing activities. The
couple briefly befriended one of the FBI agents.
Dick was married five times:
Jeanette Marlin (May to November 1948)
Kleo Apostolides (June 14, 1950 to 1959)
Anne Williams Rubinstein (April 1, 1959 to October 1965)
Nancy Hackett (July 6, 1966 to 1972)
Leslie (Tessa) Busby (April 18, 1973 to 1977)
Dick had three children, Laura Archer (February 25, 1960), Isolde Freya (now Isa Dick
Hackett) (March 15, 1967), and Christopher Kenneth (July 25, 1973).
Dick tried to stay off the political scene because of the high societal turmoil from the Vietnam
War; however, he did show some anti-Vietnam War and anti-governmental sentiments. In
1968, he joined the "Writers and Editors War Tax Protest", an anti-war pledge to pay no U.S.
federal income tax, which resulted in the confiscation of his car by the IRS.


82

Career
Dick sold his first story in 1951 and wrote full-time from that point. During 1952 his first
speculative fiction publications appeared in July and September numbers of Planet Stories,
edited by Jack O'Sullivan, and in If and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction that
fall. His debut novel was Solar Lottery, published in 1955 as half of Ace Double #D-103
alongside The Big Jump by Leigh Brackett.
[20]
The 1950s were a difficult and impoverished
time for Dick. He once said "We couldn't even pay the late fees on a library book." He
published almost exclusively within the science fiction genre, but dreamed of a career in the
mainstream of American literature. During the 1950s he produced a series of non-genre,
relatively conventional novels. In 1960 he wrote that he was willing to "take twenty to thirty
years to succeed as a literary writer." The dream of mainstream success formally died in
January 1963 when the Scott Meredith Literary Agency returned all of his unsold mainstream
novels. Only one of these works, Confessions of a Crap Artist, was published during Dick's
lifetime.
In 1963, Dick won the Hugo Award for The Man in the High Castle. Although he was hailed
as a genius in the science fiction world, the mainstream literary world was unappreciative, and
he could publish books only through low-paying science fiction publishers such as Ace. Even
in his later years, he continued to have financial troubles. In the introduction to the 1980 short
story collection The Golden Man, Dick wrote:
"Several years ago, when I was ill, Heinlein offered his help, anything he could do,
and we had never met; he would phone me to cheer me up and see how I was doing.
He wanted to buy me an electric typewriter, God bless himone of the few true
gentlemen in this world. I don't agree with any ideas he puts forth in his writing, but
that is neither here nor there. One time when I owed the IRS a lot of money and
couldn't raise it, Heinlein loaned the money to me. I think a great deal of him and his
wife; I dedicated a book to them in appreciation. Robert Heinlein is a fine-looking
man, very impressive and very military in stance; you can tell he has a military
background, even to the haircut. He knows I'm a flipped-out freak and still he helped
me and my wife when we were in trouble. That is the best in humanity, there; that is
who and what I love."
In 1972, Dick donated manuscripts, papers and other materials to the Special Collections
Library at California State University, Fullerton where they are archived in the Philip K. Dick
Science Fiction Collection in the Pollak Library. It was in Fullerton that Philip K. Dick
befriended budding science-fiction writers K. W. Jeter, James Blaylock, and Tim Powers. The
last novel Dick wrote was The Transmigration of Timothy Archer. It was published shortly
after his death in 1982.
Paranormal experiences and mental health issues
On February 20, 1974, while recovering from the effects of sodium pentothal administered for
the extraction of an impacted wisdom tooth, Dick received a home delivery of Darvon from a
young woman. When he opened the door, he was struck by the beauty of the dark-haired girl
and was especially drawn to her golden necklace. He asked her about its curious fish-shaped
design. "This is a sign used by the early Christians," she said, and then left. Dick called the
symbol the "vesicle pisces". This name seems to have been based on his conflation of two

83

related symbols, the Christian ichthys symbol (two intersecting arcs delineating a fish in
profile) which the woman was wearing, and the vesica piscis.
Dick recounted that as the sun glinted off the gold pendant, the reflection caused the
generation of a "pink beam" that mesmerized him. Dick came to believe the beam imparted
wisdom and clairvoyance; he also believed it to be intelligent. On one occasion, Dick was
startled by a separate recurrence of the pink beam. It imparted the information to him that his
infant son was ill. The Dicks rushed the child to the hospital where Dick's suspicion and his
diagnosis were confirmed.
After the woman's departure, Dick began experiencing strange hallucinations. Although
initially attributing them to his medication, after weeks of hallucinations he considered this
explanation implausible. "I experienced an invasion of my mind by a transcendentally rational
mind, as if I had been insane all my life and suddenly I had become sane," Dick told Charles
Platt.
Throughout February and March 1974, Dick experienced a series of hallucinations, which he
referred to as "2-3-74", shorthand for FebruaryMarch 1974. Aside from the "pink beam",
Dick described the initial hallucinations as geometric patterns, and, occasionally, brief
pictures of Jesus and ancient Rome. As the hallucinations increased in length and frequency,
Dick claimed he began to live two parallel lives, one as himself, "Philip K. Dick", and one as
"Thomas", a Christian persecuted by Romans in the 1st century AD. He referred to the
"transcendentally rational mind" as "Zebra", "God" and "VALIS". Dick wrote about the
experiences, first in the semi-autobiographical novel Radio Free Albemuth and then in VALIS,
The Divine Invasion and the unfinished The Owl in Daylight (the VALIS trilogy).
At one point Dick felt that he had been taken over by the spirit of the prophet Elijah. He
believed that an episode in his novel Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said was a detailed
retelling of a story from the Biblical Book of Acts, which he had never read. Dick
documented and discussed his experiences and faith in a private journal, later published as
The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick.
Pen names
Dick had two professional stories published under the pen names Richard Phillipps and Jack
Dowland. "Some Kinds of Life" in Fantastic Universe, October 1953 was published as by
Richard Phillipps apparently because the magazine had a policy against publishing multiple
stories by the same author in the same issue; "Planet for Transients" was published in the
same issue under his own name.
The short story "Orpheus with Clay Feet" was published under the pen name Jack Dowland.
The protagonist desires to be the muse for fictional author Jack Dowland, considered the
greatest science fiction author of the 20th century. In the story, Dowland publishes a short
story titled "Orpheus with Clay Feet" under the pen name Philip K. Dick.
The surname Dowland refers to Renaissance composer John Dowland, who is featured in
several works. The title Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said directly refers to Dowland's best-
known composition, "Flow My Tears". In the novel The Divine Invasion, the character Linda
Fox, created specifically with Linda Ronstadt in mind, is an intergalactically famous singer

84

whose entire body of work consists of recordings of John Dowland compositions. Also, some
protagonists in Dick's short fiction are named Dowland.
Themes
Dick's stories typically focus on the fragile nature of what is "real" and the construction of
personal identity. His stories often become surreal fantasies as the main characters slowly
discover that their everyday world is actually an illusion constructed by powerful external
entities (such as in Ubik), vast political conspiracies, or simply from the vicissitudes of an
unreliable narrator. "All of his work starts with the basic assumption that there cannot be one,
single, objective reality", writes science fiction author Charles Platt. "Everything is a matter
of perception. The ground is liable to shift under your feet. A protagonist may find himself
living out another person's dream, or he may enter a drug-induced state that actually makes
better sense than the real world, or he may cross into a different universe completely."
Alternate universes and simulacra were common plot devices, with fictional worlds inhabited
by common, working people, rather than galactic elites. "There are no heroes in Dick's
books", Ursula K. Le Guin wrote, "but there are heroics. One is reminded of Dickens: what
counts is the honesty, constancy, kindness and patience of ordinary people." Dick made no
secret that much of his thinking and work was heavily influenced by the writings of Carl Jung.
The Jungian constructs and models that most concerned Dick seem to be the archetypes of the
collective unconscious, group projection/hallucination, synchronicities, and personality
theory. Many of Dick's protagonists overtly analyze reality and their perceptions in Jungian
terms (see Lies Inc.), while at other times, the themes are so obviously in reference to Jung
their usage needs no explanation. Dick's self-named Exegesis also contained many notes on
Jung in relation to theology and mysticism.
Dick identified one major theme of his work as the question, "What constitutes the authentic
human being?" In works such as Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? beings can appear
totally human in every respect while lacking soul or compassion, while completely alien
beings such as Glimmung in Galactic Pot-Healer may be more humane and complex than
Dick's human characters.
Mental illness was a constant interest of Dick's, and themes of mental illness permeate his
work. The character Jack Bohlen in the 1964 novel Martian Time-Slip is an "ex-
schizophrenic". The novel Clans of the Alphane Moon centers on an entire society made up of
descendants of lunatic asylum inmates. In 1965 he wrote the essay titled Schizophrenia and
the Book of Changes.
Drug use (including religious, recreational, and abuse) was also a theme in many of Dick's
works, such as A Scanner Darkly and The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch. Dick was a
drug user for much of his life. According to a 1975 interview in Rolling Stone, Dick wrote all
of his books published before 1970 while on amphetamines. "A Scanner Darkly (1977) was
the first complete novel I had written without speed", said Dick in the interview. He also
experimented briefly with psychedelics, but wrote The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch,
which Rolling Stone dubs "the classic LSD novel of all time", before he had ever tried them.
Despite his heavy amphetamine use, however, Dick later said that doctors had told him that
the amphetamines never actually affected him, that his liver had processed them before they
reached his brain.

85

Summing up all these themes in Understanding Philip K. Dick, Eric Carl Link discussed eight
themes or 'ideas and motifs': Epistemology and the Nature of Reality, Know Thyself, The
Android and the Human, Entropy and Pot Healing, The Theodicy Problem, Warfare and
Power Politics, The Evolved Human, and 'Technology, Media, Drugs and Madness'.
Selected works
The Man in the High Castle (1962) is set in an alternative universe in which the United States
is ruled by the victorious Axis powers. It is considered a defining novel of the alternate
history sub-genre,
[35]
and is the only Dick novel to win a Hugo Award.
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch (1965) utilizes an array of science fiction concepts and
features several layers of reality and unreality. It is also one of Dick's first works to explore
religious themes. The novel takes place in the 21st century, when, under UN authority,
mankind has colonized the Solar System's every habitable planet and moon. Life is physically
daunting and psychologically monotonous for most colonists, so the UN must draft people to
go to the colonies. Most entertain themselves using "Perky Pat" dolls and accessories
manufactured by Earth-based "P.P. Layouts". The company also secretly creates "Can-D", an
illegal but widely available hallucinogenic drug allowing the user to "translate" into Perky Pat
(if the drug user is a woman) or Pat's boyfriend, Walt (if the drug user is a man). This
recreational use of Can-D allows colonists to experience a few minutes of an idealized life on
Earth by participating in a collective hallucination.
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968) is the story of a bounty hunter policing the
local android population. It occurs on a dying, poisoned Earth de-populated of all "successful"
humans; the only remaining inhabitants of the planet are people with no prospects off-world.
The 1968 novel is the literary source of the film Blade Runner (1982). It is both a conflation
and an intensification of the pivotally Dickian question, What is real, what is fake? What
crucial factor defines humanity as distinctly 'alive', versus those merely alive only in their
outward appearance?
Ubik (1969) uses extensive networks of psychics and a suspended state after death in creating
a state of eroding reality. A group of psychics is sent to investigate a group of rival psychics,
but several of them are apparently killed by a saboteur's bomb. Much of the novel flicks
between a number of equally plausible realities; the "real" reality, a state of half-life and
psychically manipulated realities. In 2005, Time magazine listed it among the "All-TIME 100
Greatest Novels" published since 1923.
Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said (1974) concerns Jason Taverner, a television star living
in a dystopian near-future police state. After being attacked by an angry ex-girlfriend,
Taverner awakens in a dingy Los Angeles hotel room. He still has his money in his wallet, but
his identification cards are missing. This is no minor inconvenience, as security checkpoints
(manned by "pols" and "nats", the police and National Guard) are set up throughout the city to
stop and arrest anyone without valid ID. Jason at first thinks that he was robbed, but soon
discovers that his entire identity has been erased. There is no record of him in any official
database, and even his closest associates do not recognize or remember him. For the first time
in many years, Jason has no fame or reputation to rely on. He has only his innate charisma to
help him as he tries to find out what happened to his past and avoid the attention of the pols.
The novel was Dick's first published novel after years of silence, during which time his
critical reputation had grown, and this novel was awarded the John W. Campbell Memorial

86

Award for Best Science Fiction Novel. It is the only Philip K. Dick novel nominated for both
a Hugo and for a Nebula Award.
In an essay written two years before dying, Dick described how he learned from his
Episcopalian priest that an important scene in Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said involving
its other main character, Police General Felix Buckman, the policeman of the title was very
similar to a scene in Acts of the Apostles, a book of the Christian New Testament. Film
director Richard Linklater discusses this novel in his film Waking Life, which begins with a
scene reminiscent of another Dick novel, Time Out of Joint.
A Scanner Darkly (1977) is a bleak mixture of science fiction and police procedural novels; in
its story, an undercover narcotics police detective begins to lose touch with reality after falling
victim to the same permanently mind altering drug, Substance D, he was enlisted to help
fight. Substance D is instantly addictive, beginning with a pleasant euphoria which is quickly
replaced with increasing confusion, hallucinations and eventually total psychosis. In this
novel, as with all Dick novels, there is an underlying thread of paranoia and dissociation with
multiple realities perceived simultaneously. It was adapted to film by Richard Linklater.
The Philip K. Dick Reader is an introduction to the variety of Dick's short fiction.
VALIS (1980) is perhaps Dick's most postmodern and autobiographical novel, examining his
own unexplained experiences. It may also be his most academically studied work, and was
adapted as an opera by Tod Machover. Later works like the VALIS trilogy were heavily
autobiographical, many with "two-three-seventy-four" (2-3-74) references and influences.
The word VALIS is the acronym for Vast Active Living Intelligence System. Later, Dick
theorized that VALIS was both a "reality generator" and a means of extraterrestrial
communication. A fourth VALIS manuscript, Radio Free Albemuth, although composed in
1976, was posthumously published in 1985. This work is described by the publisher (Arbor
House) as "an introduction and key to his magnificent VALIS trilogy."
Regardless of the feeling that he was somehow experiencing a divine communication, Dick
was never fully able to rationalize the events. For the rest of his life, he struggled to
comprehend what was occurring, questioning his own sanity and perception of reality. He
transcribed what thoughts he could into an eight-thousand-page, one-million-word journal
dubbed the Exegesis. From 1974 until his death in 1982, Dick spent many nights writing in
this journal. A recurring theme in Exegesis is Dick's hypothesis that history had been stopped
in the 1st century AD., and that "the Empire never ended". He saw Rome as the pinnacle of
materialism and despotism, which, after forcing the Gnostics underground, had kept the
population of Earth enslaved to worldly possessions. Dick believed that VALIS had
communicated with him, and anonymous others, to induce the impeachment of U.S. President
Richard Nixon, whom Dick believed to be the current Emperor of Rome incarnate.
In a 1968 essay titled "Self Portrait", collected in the 1995 book The Shifting Realities of
Philip K. Dick, Dick reflects on his work and lists which books he feels "might escape World
War Three": Eye in the Sky, The Man in the High Castle, Martian Time-Slip, Dr. Bloodmoney,
or How We Got Along After the Bomb, The Zap Gun, The Penultimate Truth, The Simulacra,
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch (which he refers to as "the most vital of them all"), Do
Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, and Ubik. In a 1976 interview, Dick cited A Scanner
Darkly as his best work, feeling that he "had finally written a true masterpiece, after 25 years
of writing".

87

Films
A number of Dick's stories have been made into films. Dick himself wrote a screenplay for an
intended film adaptation of Ubik in 1974, but the film was never made. Many film adaptations
have not used Dick's original titles. When asked why this was, Dick's ex-wife Tessa said,
"Actually, the books rarely carry Phil's original titles, as the editors usually wrote new titles
after reading his manuscripts. Phil often commented that he couldn't write good titles. If he
could, he would have been an advertising writer instead of a novelist." Films based on Dick's
writing have accumulated a total revenue of over US $1 billion as of 2009.
Blade Runner (1982), based on Dick's 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric
Sheep?, directed by Ridley Scott and starring Harrison Ford. A screenplay had been in
the works for years before Scott took the helm, with Dick being extremely critical of
all versions. Dick was still apprehensive about how his story would be adapted for the
film when the project was finally put into motion. Among other things, he refused to
do a novelization of the film. But contrary to his initial reactions, when he was given
an opportunity to see some of the special effects sequences of Los Angeles 2019, Dick
was amazed that the environment was "exactly as how I'd imagined it!", though Ridley
Scott has mentioned he had never even read the source material. Following the
screening, Dick and Scott had a frank but cordial discussion of Blade Runner's themes
and characters, and although they had wildly differing views, Dick fully backed the
film from then on, stating that his "life and creative work are justified and completed
by Blade Runner." Dick died from a stroke less than four months before the release of
the film.
Total Recall (1990), based on the short story "We Can Remember It for You
Wholesale", directed by Paul Verhoeven and starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. The
film includes such Dickian elements as the confusion of fantasy and reality, the
progression towards more fantastic elements as the story progresses, machines talking
back to humans, and the protagonist's doubts about his own identity.
Confessions d'un Barjo (1992), titled Barjo in its English-language release, a French
film based on the non-science-fiction novel Confessions of a Crap Artist. Reflecting
Dick's popularity and critical respect in France, a brief science fiction homage is
slipped into the film in the form of a TV show.
Screamers (1995), based on the short story "Second Variety", directed by Christian
Duguay and starring Peter Weller. The location was altered from a war-devastated
Earth to a distant planet. A sequel without Weller, titled Screamers: The Hunting, was
released straight to DVD in 2009.
Minority Report (2002), based on the short story "The Minority Report", directed by
Steven Spielberg and starring Tom Cruise. The film translates many of Dick's themes,
but changes major plot points and adds an action-adventure framework.
Impostor (2002), based on the 1953 story "Impostor," directed by Gary Fleder and
starring Gary Sinise, Vincent D'Onofrio and Madeleine Stowe. The story was also
adapted in 1962 for the British television anthology series Out of This World.
Paycheck (2003), directed by John Woo and starring Ben Affleck, based on Dick's
short story of the same name.
A Scanner Darkly (2006), directed by Richard Linklater and starring Keanu Reeves,
Winona Ryder, and Robert Downey Jr., based on Dick's novel of the same name. The
film was produced using the process of rotoscoping: it was first shot in live-action and
then the live footage was animated over.

88

Next (2007), directed by Lee Tamahori and starring Nicolas Cage, loosely based on
the short story "The Golden Man".
Radio Free Albemuth (2010), directed by John Alan Simon loosely based on the novel
"Radio Free Albemuth".
The Adjustment Bureau (2011), directed by George Nolfi and starring Matt Damon,
loosely based on the short story "Adjustment Team".
Total Recall (2012), directed by Len Wiseman and starring Colin Farrell, second film
adaptation of the short story "We Can Remember It for You Wholesale".
Future films based on Dick's writing include an animated adaptation of The King of the Elves
from Walt Disney Animation Studios, set to be released in the spring of 2016; and a film
adaptation of Ubik which, according to Dick's daughter, Isa Dick Hackett, is in advanced
negotiation. Ubik is set to be made into a film by Michel Gondry.
The Terminator series also uses the theme of humanoid assassination machines portrayed in
Second Variety. The Halcyon Company, known for developing the Terminator franchise,
acquired right of first refusal to film adaptations of the works of Philip K. Dick in 2007. In
May 2009, they announced plans for an adaptation of Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said.

It
has been reported in 2010 that Ridley Scott will produce an adaptation of The Man in the
High Castle for BBC, in the form of a mini-series.
Death
On February 17, 1982, after completing an interview, Dick contacted his therapist
complaining of failing eyesight and was advised to go to a hospital immediately, but he did
not. The next day, he was found unconscious on the floor of his Santa Ana, California home,
having suffered a stroke. In the hospital, he suffered another stroke, after which his brain
activity ceased. Five days later, on March 2, 1982, he was disconnected from life support and
died. After his death, Dick's father, Joseph, took his son's ashes to Fort Morgan, Colorado,
where they were buried next to his twin sister Jane, whose tombstone had been inscribed with
both their names when she died 53 years earlier.
Influence and legacy
Lawrence Sutin's 1989 biography of Dick, Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick, is
considered the standard biographical treatment of Dick's life.
In 1993, French writer Emmanuel Carrre published Je suis vivant et vous tes morts which
was first translated and published in English in 2004 as I Am Alive and You Are Dead: A
Journey Into the Mind of Philip K. Dick, which the author describes in his preface in this way:
The book you hold in your hands is a very peculiar book. I have tried to depict the life of
Philip K. Dick from the inside, in other words, with the same freedom and empathy indeed
with the same truth with which he depicted his own characters.
Critics of the book have complained about the lack of fact checking, sourcing, notes and
index, "the usual evidence of deep research that gives a biography the solid stamp of
authority." It can be considered a non-fiction novel about his life.

89

Dick has influenced many writers, including Jonathan Lethem, and Ursula K. Le Guin. The
prominent literary critic Fredric Jameson proclaimed Dick the "Shakespeare of Science
Fiction", and praised his work as "one of the most powerful expressions of the society of
spectacle and pseudo-event". The author Roberto Bolao also praised Dick, describing him as
Thoreau plus the death of the American dream. Dick has also influenced filmmakers, his
work being compared to films such as the Wachowskis' The Matrix, David Cronenberg's
Videodrome, eXistenZ, and Spider, Spike Jonze's Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, Michel
Gondry's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Alex Proyas's Dark City, Peter Weir's The
Truman Show, Andrew Niccol's Gattaca, In Time, Terry Gilliam's 12 Monkeys, Wes Craven's
A Nightmare on Elm Street, David Lynch's Mulholland Drive, Alejandro Amenbar's Open
Your Eyes, David Fincher's Fight Club, Cameron Crowe's Vanilla Sky, Darren Aronofsky's Pi,
Richard Kelly's Donnie Darko and Southland Tales, and Christopher Nolan's Memento and
Inception.
The Philip K. Dick Society was an organization dedicated to promoting the literary works of
Dick and was previously led by Dick's longtime friend the music journalist Paul Williams.
Williams also served as Dick's literary executor for several years after Dick's death and wrote
one of the first biographies of Dick, entitled Only Apparently Real: The World of Philip K.
Dick.
Dick was recreated by his fans in the form of a remote-controlled android designed in his
likeness. The android of Philip K. Dick was included on a discussion panel in a San Diego
Comic Con presentation about the film adaptation of the novel, A Scanner Darkly. In
February 2006, an America West Airlines employee misplaced the android's head, and it has
not yet been found. In January 2011, it was announced that Hanson Robotics had built a
replacement.
Contemporary philosophy
Dick's foreshadowing of postmodernity has been noted by philosophers as diverse as Jean
Baudrillard, Fredric Jameson, Laurence Rickels and Slavoj iek. Jean Baudrillard offers this
interpretation:
It is hyperreal. It is a universe of simulation, which is something altogether different. And this
is so not because Dick speaks specifically of simulacra. SF has always done so, but it has
always played upon the double, on artificial replication or imaginary duplication, whereas
here the double has disappeared. There is no more double; one is always already in the other
world, an other world which is not another, without mirrors or projection or utopias as
means for reflection. The simulation is impassable, unsurpassable, checkmated, without
exteriority. We can no longer move "through the mirror" to the other side, as we could during
the golden age of transcendence.
For his anti-government skepticism, Philip K. Dick was afforded minor mention in
Mythmakers and Lawbreakers, a collection of interviews about fiction by anarchist authors.
Noting his early authorship of "The Last of the Masters", an anarchist themed novelette,
author Margaret Killjoy expressed that while Dick never fully sided with anarchism, his
opposition to government centralization and organized religion has influenced anarchist
interpretations of gnosticism.
(Wikipedia) To the top

90

THE MESSENGER
By Robert W Chambers

Little gray messenger,
Robed like painted Death,
Your robe is dust.
Whom do you seek
Among lilies and closed buds
At dusk?
Among lilies and closed buds
At dusk,
Whom do you seek,
Little gray messenger,
Robed in the awful panoply
Of painted Death?
R.W.C.
All-wise,
Hast thou seen all there is to see with thy two eyes?
Dost thou know all there is to know, and so,
Omniscient,
Darest thou still to say thy brother lies?
R.W.C.
I
"The bullet entered here," said Max Fortin, and he placed his middle finger over a smooth
hole exactly in the center of the forehead.
I sat down upon a mound of dry seaweed and unslung my fowling piece.
The little chemist cautiously felt the edges of the shot-hole, first with his middle finger, and
then with his thumb.
"Let me see the skull again," said I.
Max Fortin picked it up from the sod.
"It's like all the others," he repeated, wiping his glasses on his handkerchief. "I thought you
might care to see one of the skulls, so I brought this over from the gravel pit. The men from
Bannalec are digging yet. They ought to stop."
"How many skulls are there altogether?" I inquired.
"They found thirty-eight skulls; there are thirty-nine noted in the list. They lie piled up in the
gravel pit on the edge of Le Bihan's wheat field. The men are at work yet. Le Bihan is going
to stop them."

91

"Let's go over," said I; and I picked up my gun and started across the cliffs, Portin on one
side, Mme on the other.
"Who has the list?" I asked, lighting my pipe. "You say there is a list?"
"The list was found rolled up in a brass cylinder," said the chemist. He added: "You should
not smoke here. You know that if a single spark drifted into the wheat "
"Ah, but I have a cover to my pipe," said I, smiling.
Fortin watched me as I closed the pepper-box arrangement over the glowing bowl of the pipe.
Then he continued:
"The list was made out on thick yellow paper; the brass tube has preserved it. It is as fresh to-
day as it was in 1760. You shall see it."
"Is that the date?"
"The list is dated 'April, 1760.' The Brigadier Durand has it. It is not written in French."
"Not written in French!" I exclaimed.
"No," replied Fortin solemnly, "it is written in Breton."
"But," I protested, "the Breton language was never written or printed in 1760."
"Except by priests," said the chemist.
"I have heard of but one priest who ever wrote the Breton language," I began.
Fortin stole a glance at my face.
"You mean the Black Priest?" he asked.
I nodded.
Fortin opened his mouth to speak again, hesitated, and finally shut his teeth obstinately over
the wheat stem that he was chewing.
"And the Black Priest?" I suggested encouragingly. But I knew it was useless; for it is easier
to move the stars from their courses than to make an obstinate Breton talk. We walked on for
a minute or two in silence.
"Where is the Brigadier Durand?" I asked, motioning Mme to come out of the wheat, which
he was trampling as though it were heather. As I spoke we came in sight of the farther edge of
the wheat field and the dark, wet mass of cliffs beyond.
"Durand is down there you can see him; he stands just behind the mayor of St. Gildas."

92

"I see," said I; and we struck straight down, following a sun-baked cattle path across the
heather.
When we reached the edge of the wheat field, Le Bihan, the mayor of St. Gildas, called to me,
and I tucked my gun under my arm and skirted the wheat to where he stood.
"Thirty-eight skulls," he said in his thin, high-pitched voice; "there is but one more, and I am
opposed to further search. I suppose Fortin told you?"
I shook hands with him, and returned the salute of the Brigadier Durand.
"I am opposed to further search," repeated Le Bihan, nervously picking at the mass of silver
buttons which covered the front of his velvet and broadcloth jacket like a breastplate of scale
armor.
Durand pursed up his lips, twisted his tremendous mustache, and hooked his thumbs in his
saber belt.
"As for me," he said, "I am in favor of further search."
"Further search for what for the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked.
Le Bihan nodded. Durand frowned at the sunlit sea, rocking like a bowl of molten gold from
the cliffs to the horizon. I followed his eyes. On the dark glistening cliffs, silhouetted against
the glare of the sea, sat a cormorant, black, motionless, its horrible head raised toward heaven.
"Where is that list, Durand?" I asked.
The gendarme rummaged in his despatch pouch and produced a brass cylinder about a foot
long. Very gravely he unscrewed the head and dumped out a scroll of thick yellow paper
closely covered with writing on both sides. At a nod from Le Bihan he handed me the scroll.
But I could make nothing of the coarse writing, now faded to a dull brown.
"Come, come, Le Bihan," I said impatiently, "translate it, won't you? You and Max Fortin
make a lot of mystery out of nothing, it seems."
Le Bihan went to the edge of the pit where the three Bannalec men were digging, gave an
order or two in Breton, and turned to me.
As I came to the edge of the pit the Bannalec men were removing a square piece of sailcloth
from what appeared to be a pile of cobblestones.
"Look!" said Le Bihan shrilly. I looked. The pile below was a heap of skulls. After a moment
I clambered down the gravel sides of the pit and walked over to the men of Bannalec. They
saluted me gravely, leaning on their picks and shovels, and wiping their sweating faces with
sunburned hands.
"How many?" said I in Breton.
"Thirty-eight," they replied.

93

I glanced around. Beyond the heap of skulls lay two piles of human bones. Beside these was a
mound of broken, rusted bits of iron and steel. Looking closer, I saw that this mound was
composed of rusty bayonets, saber blades, scythe blades, with here and there a tarnished
buckle attached to a bit of leather hard as iron.
I picked up a couple of buttons and a belt plate. The buttons bore the royal arms of England;
the belt plate was emblazoned with the English arms and also with the number "27."
"I have heard my grandfather speak of the terrible English regiment, the 27th Foot, which
landed and stormed the fort up there," said one of the Bannalec men.
"Oh!" said I; "then these are the bones of English soldiers?"
"Yes," said the men of Bannalec.
Le Bihan was calling to me from the edge of the pit above, and I handed the belt plate and
buttons to the men and climbed the side of the excavation.
"Well," said I, trying to prevent Mme from leaping up and licking my face as I emerged
from the pit, "I suppose you know what these bones are. What are you going to do with
them?"
"There was a man," said Le Bihan angrily, "an Englishman, who passed here in a dog-cart on
his way to Quimper about an hour ago, and what do you suppose he wished to do?"
"Buy the relics?" I asked, smiling.
"Exactly the pig!" piped the mayor of St. Gildas. "Jean Marie Tregunc, who found the
bones, was standing there where Max Fortin stands, and do you know what he answered? He
spat upon the ground, and said: 'Pig of an Englishman, do you take me for a desecrator of
graves?'"
I knew Tregunc, a sober, blue-eyed Breton, who lived from one year's end to the other
without being able to afford a single bit of meat for a meal.
"How much did the Englishman offer Tregunc?" I asked.
"Two hundred francs for the skulls alone."
I thought of the relic hunters and the relic buyers on the battlefields of our civil war.
"Seventeen hundred and sixty is long ago," I said.
"Respect for the dead can never die," said Fortin.
"And the English soldiers came here to kill your fathers and burn your homes," I continued.
"They were murderers and thieves, but they are dead," said Tregunc, coming up from the
beach below, his long sea rake balanced on his dripping jersey.

94

"How much do you earn every year, Jean Marie?" I asked, turning to shake hands with him.
"Two hundred and twenty francs, monsieur."
"Forty-five dollars a year," I said. "Bah! you are worth more, Jean. Will you take care of my
garden for me? My wife wished me to ask you. I think it would be worth one hundred francs a
month to you and to me. Come on, Le Bihan come along, Fortin and you, Durand. I
want somebody to translate that list into French for me."
Tregunc stood gazing at me, his blue eyes dilated.
"You may begin at once," I said, smiling, "if the salary suits you?"
"It suits," said Tregunc, fumbling for his pipe in a silly way that annoyed Le Bihan.
"Then go and begin your work," cried the mayor impatiently; and Tregunc started across the
moors toward St. Gildas, taking off his velvet-ribboned cap to me and gripping his sea rake
very hard.
"You offer him more than my salary," said the mayor, after a moment's contemplation of his
silver buttons.
"Pooh!" said I, "what do you do for your salary except play dominoes with Max Portin at the
Groix Inn?"
Le Bihan turned red, but Durand rattled his saber and winked at Max Fortin, and I slipped my
arm through the arm of the sulky magistrate, laughing.
"There's a shady spot under the cliff," I said; "come on, Le Bihan, and read me what is in the
scroll."
In a few moments we reached the shadow of the cliff, and I threw myself upon the turf, chin
on hand, to listen.
The gendarme, Durand, also sat down, twisting his mustache into needlelike points. Fortin
leaned against the cliff, polishing his glasses and examining us with vague, near-sighted eyes;
and Le Bihan, the mayor, planted himself in our midst, rolling up the scroll and tucking it
under his arm.
"First of all," he began in a shrill voice, "I am going to light my pipe, and while lighting it I
shall tell you what I have heard about the attack on the fort yonder. My father told me; his
father told him."
He jerked his head in the direction of the ruined fort, a small, square stone structure on the sea
cliff, now nothing but crumbling walls. Then he slowly produced a tobacco pouch, a bit of
flint and tinder, and a long-stemmed pipe fitted with a microscopical bowl of baked clay. To
fill such a pipe requires ten minutes' close attention. To smoke it to a finish takes but four
puffs. It is very Breton, this Breton pipe. It is the crystallization of everything Breton.
"Go on," said I, lighting a cigarette.

95

"The fort," said the mayor, "was built by Louis XIV, and was dismantled twice by the
English. Louis XV restored it in 1730. In 1760 it was carried by assault by the English. They
came across from the island of Groix three shiploads, and they stormed the fort and sacked
St. Julien yonder, and they started to burn St. Gildas you can see the marks of their bullets
on my house yet; but the men of Bannalec and the men of Lorient fell upon them with pike
and scythe and blunderbuss, and those who did not run away lie there below in the gravel pit
now thirty-eight of them."
"And the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked, finishing my cigarette.
The mayor had succeeded in filling his pipe, and now he began to put his tobacco pouch
away.
"The thirty-ninth skull," he mumbled, holding the pipe stem between his defective teeth
"the thirty-ninth skull is no business of mine. I have told the Bannalec men to cease digging."
"But what is whose is the missing skull?" I persisted curiously.
The mayor was busy trying to strike a spark to his tinder. Presently he set it aglow, applied it
to his pipe, took the prescribed four puffs, knocked the ashes out of the bowl, and gravely
replaced the pipe in his pocket.
"The missing skull?" he asked.
"Yes," said I, impatiently.
The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read, translating from the Breton into
French. And this is what he read:
"ON THE CLIFFS OF ST. GILDAS,
APRIL 13, 1760.
"On this day, by order of the Count of Soisic, general in chief of the Breton forces now lying
in Kerselec Forest, the bodies of thirty-eight English soldiers of the 27th, 50th, and 72d
regiments of Foot were buried in this spot, together with their arms and equipments."
The mayor paused and glanced at me reflectively.
"Go on, Le Bihan," I said.
"With them," continued the mayor, turning the scroll and reading on the other side, "was
buried the body of that vile traitor who betrayed the fort to the English. The manner of his
death was as follows: By order of the most noble Count of Soisic, the traitor was first branded
upon the forehead with the brand of an arrowhead. The iron burned through the flesh and was
pressed heavily so that the brand should even burn into the bone of the skull. The traitor was
then led out and bidden to kneel. He admitted having guided the English from the island of
Groix. Although a priest and a Frenchman, he had violated his priestly office to aid him in
discovering the password to the fort. This password he extorted during confession from a
young Breton girl who was in the habit of rowing across from the island of Groix to visit her

96

husband in the fort. When the fort fell, this young girl, crazed by the death of her husband,
sought the Count of Soisic and told how the priest had forced her to confess to him all she
knew about the fort. The priest was arrested at St. Gildas as he was about to cross the river to
Lorient. When arrested he cursed the girl, Marie Trevec "
"What!" I exclaimed, "Marie Trevec!"
"Marie Trevec," repeated Le Bihan; "the priest cursed Marie Trevec, and all her family and
descendants. He was shot as he knelt, having a mask of leather over his face, because the
Bretons who composed the squad of execution refused to fire at a priest unless his face was
concealed. The priest was l'Abb Sorgue, commonly known as the Black Priest on account of
his dark face and swarthy eyebrows. He was buried with a stake through his heart."
Le Bihan paused, hesitated, looked at me, and handed the manuscript back to Durand. The
gendarme took it and slipped it into the brass cylinder.
"So," said I, "the thirty-ninth skull is the skull of the Black Priest."
"Yes," said Fortin. "I hope they won't find it."
"I have forbidden them to proceed," said the mayor querulously. "You heard me, Max Fortin."
I rose and picked up my gun. Mme came and pushed his head into my hand.
"That's a fine dog," observed Durand, also rising.
"Why don't you wish to find his skull?" I asked Le Bihan. "It would be curious to see whether
the arrow brand really burned into the bone."
"There is something in that scroll that I didn't read to you," said the mayor grimly. "Do you
wish to know what it is?"
"Of course," I replied in surprise.
"Give me the scroll again, Durand," he said; then he read from the bottom: "I, l'Abb Sorgue,
forced to write the above by my executioners, have written it in my own blood; and with it I
leave my curse. My curse on St. Gildas, on Marie Trevec, and on her descendants. I will come
back to St. Gildas when my remains are disturbed. Woe to that Englishman whom my
branded skull shall touch!"
"What rot!" I said. "Do you believe it was really written in his own blood?"
"I am going to test it," said Fortin, "at the request of Monsieur le Maire. I am not anxious for
the job, however."
"See," said Le Bihan, holding out the scroll to me, "it is signed, 'L'Abb Sorgue.'"
I glanced curiously over the paper.

97

"It must be the Black Priest," I said. "He was the only man who wrote in the Breton language.
This is a wonderfully interesting discovery, for now, at last, the mystery of the Black Priest's
disappearance is cleared up. You will, of course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?"
"No," said the mayor obstinately, "it shall be buried in the pit below where the rest of the
Black Priest lies."
I looked at him and recognized that argument would be useless. But still I said, "It will be a
loss to history, Monsieur Le Bihan."
"All the worse for history, then," said the enlightened Mayor of St. Gildas.
We had sauntered back to the gravel pit while speaking. The men of Bannalec were carrying
the bones of the English soldiers toward the St. Gildas cemetery, on the cliffs to the east,
where already a knot of white-coiffed women stood in attitudes of prayer; and I saw the
somber robe of a priest among the crosses of the little graveyard.
"They were thieves and assassins; they are dead now," muttered Max Fortin.
"Respect the dead," repeated the Mayor of St. Gildas, looking after the Bannalec men.
"It was written in that scroll that Marie Trevec, of Groix Island, was cursed by the priest
she and her descendants," I said, touching Le Bihan on the arm. "There was a Marie Trevec
who married an Yves Trevec of St. Gildas "
"It is the same," said Le Bihan, looking at me obliquely.
"Oh!" said I; "then they were ancestors of my wife."
"Do you fear the curse?" asked Le Bihan.
"What?" I laughed.
"There was the case of the Purple Emperor," said Max Fortin timidly.
Startled for a moment, I faced him, then shrugged my shoulders and kicked at a smooth bit of
rock which lay near the edge of the pit, almost embedded in gravel.
"Do you suppose the Purple-Emperor drank himself crazy because he was descended from
Marie Trevec?" I asked contemptuously.
"Of course not," said Max Fortin hastily.
"Of course not," piped the mayor. "I only Hellow! what's that you're kicking?"
"What?" said I, glancing down, at the same time involuntarily giving another kick. The
smooth bit of rock dislodged itself and rolled out of the loosened gravel at my feet.
"The thirty-ninth skull!" I exclaimed. "By jingo, it's the noddle of the Black Priest! See! there
is the arrowhead branded on the front!"

98

The mayor stepped back. Max Fortin also retreated. There was a pause, during which I looked
at them, and they looked anywhere but at me.
"I don't like it," said the mayor at last, in a husky, high voice. "I don't like it! The scroll says
he will come back to St. Gildas when his remains are disturbed. I I don't like it, Monsieur
Darrel "
"Bosh!" said I; "the poor wicked devil is where he can't get out. For Heaven's sake, Le Bihan,
what is this stuff you are talking in the year of grace 1896?"
The mayor gave me a look.
"And he says 'Englishman.' You are an Englishman, Monsieur Darrel," he announced.
"You know better. You know I'm an American."
"It's all the same," said the Mayor of St. Gildas, obstinately.
"No, it isn't!" I answered, much exasperated, and deliberately pushed the skull till it rolled
into the bottom of the gravel pit below.
"Cover it up," said I; "bury the scroll with it too, if you insist, but I think you ought to send it
to Paris. Don't look so gloomy, Fortin, unless you believe in werewolves and ghosts. Hey!
what the what the devil's the matter with you, anyway? What are you staring at, Le
Bihan?"
"Come, come," muttered the mayor in a low, tremulous voice, "it's time we got out of this.
Did you see? Did you see, Fortin?"
"I saw," whispered Max Fortin, pallid with fright.
The two men were almost running across the sunny pasture now, and I hastened after them,
demanding to know what was the matter.
"Matter!" chattered the mayor, gasping with exasperation and terror. "The skull is rolling up
hill again," and he burst into a terrified gallop, Max Fortin followed close behind.
I watched them stampeding across the pasture, then turned toward the gravel pit, mystified,
incredulous. The skull was lying on the edge of the pit, exactly where it had been before I
pushed it over the edge. For a second I stared at it; a singular chilly feeling crept up my spinal
column, and I turned and walked away, sweat starting from the root of every hair on my head.
Before I had gone twenty paces the absurdity of the whole thing struck me. I halted, hot with
shame and annoyance, and retraced my steps.
There lay the skull.
"I rolled a stone down instead of the skull," I muttered to myself. Then with the butt of my
gun I pushed the skull over the edge of the pit and watched it roll to the bottom; and as it
struck the bottom of the pit, Mme, my dog, suddenly whipped his tail between his legs,
whimpered, and made off across the moor.

99

"Mme!" I shouted, angry and astonished; but the dog only fled the faster, and I ceased
calling from sheer surprise.
"What the mischief is the matter with that dog!" I thought. He had never before played me
such a trick.
Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the skull. I looked down. The skull lay
at my feet again, touching them.
"Good heavens!" I stammered, and struck at it blindly with my gunstock. The ghastly thing
flew into the air, whirling over and over, and rolled again down the sides of the pit to the
bottom. Breathlessly I stared at it, then, confused and scarcely comprehending, I stepped back
from the pit, still facing it, one, ten, twenty paces, my eyes almost starting from my head, as
though I expected to see the thing roll up from the bottom of the pit under my very gaze. At
last I turned my back to the pit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland toward my
home. As I reached the road that winds from St. Gildas to St. Julien I gave one hasty glance at
the pit over my shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sod about the excavation. There was
something white and bare and round on the turf at the edge of the pit. It might have been a
stone; there were plenty of them lying about.
II
When I entered my garden I saw Mme sprawling on the stone doorstep. He eyed me
sideways and flopped his tail.
"Are you not mortified, you idiot dog?" I said, looking about the upper windows for Lys.
Mme rolled over on his back and raised one deprecating forepaw, as though to ward off
calamity.
"Don't act as though I was in the habit of beating you to death," I said, disgusted. I had never
in my life raised whip to the brute. "But you are a fool dog," I continued. "No, you needn't
come to be babied and wept over; Lys can do that, if she insists, but I am ashamed of you, and
you can go to the devil."
Mme slunk off into the house, and I followed, mounting directly to my wife's boudoir. It was
empty.
"Where has she gone?" I said, looking hard at Mme, who had followed me. "Oh! I see you
don't know. Don't pretend you do. Come off that lounge! Do you think Lys wants tan-colored
hairs all over her lounge?"
I rang the bell for Catherine and Fine, but they didn't know where "madame" had gone; so I
went into my room, bathed, exchanged my somewhat grimy shooting clothes for a suit of
warm, soft knickerbockers, and, after lingering some extra moments over my toilet for I
was particular, now that I had married Lys I went down to the garden and took a chair out
under the fig-trees.
"Where can she be?" I wondered, Mme came sneaking out to be comforted, and I forgave
him for Lys's sake, whereupon he frisked.

100

"You bounding cur," said I, "now what on earth started you off across the moor? If you do it
again I'll push you along with a charge of dust shot."
As yet I had scarcely dared think about the ghastly hallucination of which I had been a victim,
but now I faced it squarely, flushing a little with mortification at the thought of my hasty
retreat from the gravel pit.
"To think," I said aloud, "that those old woman's tales of Max Fortin and Le Bihan should
have actually made me see what didn't exist at all! I lost my nerve like a schoolboy in a dark
bedroom." For I knew now that I had mistaken a round stone for a skull each time, and had
pushed a couple of big pebbles into the pit instead of the skull itself.
"By jingo!" said I, "I'm nervous; my liver must be in a devil of a condition if I see such things
when I'm awake! Lys will know what to give me."
I felt mortified and irritated and sulky, and thought disgustedly of Le Bihan and Max Fortin.
But after a while I ceased speculating, dismissed the mayor, the chemist, and the skull from
my mind, and smoked pensively, watching the sun low dipping in the western ocean. As the
twilight fell for a moment over ocean and moorland, a wistful, restless happiness filled my
heart, the happiness that all men know all men who have loved.
Slowly the purple mist crept out over the sea; the cliffs darkened; the forest was shrouded.
Suddenly the sky above burned with the afterglow, and the world was alight again.
Cloud after cloud caught the rose dye; the cliffs were tinted with it; moor and pasture, heather
and forest burned and pulsated with the gentle flush. I saw the gulls turning and tossing above
the sand bar, their snowy wings tipped with pink; I saw the sea swallows sheering the surface
of the still river, stained to its placid depths with warm reflections of the clouds. The twitter of
drowsy hedge birds broke out in the stillness; a salmon rolled its shining side above tidewater.
The interminable monotone of the ocean intensified the silence. I sat motionless, holding my
breath as one who listens to the first low rumor of an organ. All at once the pure whistle of a
nightingale cut the silence, and the first moonbeam silvered the wastes of mist-hung waters.
I raised my head.
Lys stood before me in the garden.
When we had kissed each other, we linked arms and moved up and down the gravel walks,
watching the moonbeams sparkle on the sand bar as the tide ebbed and ebbed. The broad beds
of white pinks about us were atremble with hovering white moths; the October roses hung all
abloom, perfuming the salt wind.
"Sweetheart," I said, "where is Yvonne? Has she promised to spend Christmas with us?"
"Yes, Dick; she drove me down from Plougat this afternoon. She sent her love to you. I am
not jealous. What did you shoot?"

101

"A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I told Catherine not to touch them until
you had seen them."
Now I suppose I knew that Lys could not be particularly enthusiastic over game or guns; but
she pretended she was, and always scornfully denied that it was for my sake and not for the
pure love of sport. So she dragged me off to inspect the rather meager game bag, and she paid
me pretty compliments, and gave a little cry of delight and pity as I lifted the enormous hare
out of the sack by his ears.
"He'll eat no more of our lettuce," I said attempting to justify the assassination.
"Unhappy little bunny and what a beauty! O Dick, you are a splendid shot, are you not?"
I evaded the question and hauled out a partridge.
"Poor little dead things'" said Lys in a whisper; "it seems a pity doesn't it, Dick? But then
you are so clever "
"We'll have them broiled," I said guardedly, "tell Catherine."
Catherine came in to take away the game, and presently 'Fine Lelocard, Lys's maid,
announced dinner, and Lys tripped away to her boudoir.
I stood an instant contemplating her blissfully, thinking, "My boy, you're the happiest fellow
in the world you're in love with your wife'"
I walked into the dining-room, beamed at the plates, walked out again; met Tregunc in the
hallway, beamed on him; glanced into the kitchen, beamed at Catherine, and went up stairs,
still beaming.
Before I could knock at Lys's door it opened, and Lys came hastily out. When she saw me she
gave a little cry of relief, and nestled close to my breast.
"There is something peering in at my window," she said.
"What!" I cried angrily.
"A man, I think, disguised as a priest, and he has a mask on. He must have climbed up by the
bay tree."
I was down the stairs and out of doors in no time. The moonlit garden was absolutely
deserted. Tregunc came up, and together we searched the hedge and shrubbery around the
house and out to the road.
"Jean Marie," said I at length, "loose my bulldog he knows you and take your supper on
the porch where you can watch. My wife says the fellow is disguised as a priest, and wears a
mask."
Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile. "He will not care to venture in here again, I think,
Monsieur Darrel."

102

I went back and found Lys seated quietly at the table.
"The soup is ready, dear," she said. "Don't worry; it was only some foolish lout from
Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would do such a thing."
I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys treated it as a stupid joke, and after a
while I began to look at it in that light.
Lys told me about Yvonne, and reminded me of my promise to have Herbert Stuart down to
meet her.
"You wicked diplomat!" I protested. "Herbert is in Paris, and hard at work for the Salon."
"Don't you think he might spare a week to flirt with the prettiest girl in Finistere?" inquired
Lys innocently.
"Prettiest girl! Not much!" I said.
"Who is, then?" urged Lys.
I laughed a trifle sheepishly.
"I suppose you mean me, Dick," said Lys, coloring up.
"Now I bore you, don't I?"
"Bore me? Ah, no, Dick."
After coffee and cigarettes were served I spoke about Tregunc, and Lys approved.
"Poor Jean! He will be glad, won't he? What a dear fellow you are!"
"Nonsense," said I; "we need a gardener; you said so yourself, Lys."
But Lys leaned over and kissed me, and then bent down and hugged Mme who whistled
through his nose in sentimental appreciation.
"I am a very happy woman," said Lys.
"Mme was a very bad dog to-day," I observed.
"Poor Mme!" said Lys, smiling.
When dinner was over and Mme lay snoring before the blaze for the October nights are
often chilly in Finistere Lys curled up in the chimney corner with her embroidery, and
gave me a swift glance from under her dropping lashes.
"You look like a schoolgirl, Lys," I said teasingly. "I don't believe you are sixteen yet."
She pushed back her heavy burnished hair thoughtfully. Her wrist was as white as surf foam.

103

"Have we been married four years? I don't believe it," I said.
She gave me another swift glance and touched the embroidery on her knee, smiling faintly.
"I see," said I, also smiling at the embroidered garment. "Do you think it will fit?"
"Fit?" repeated Lys. Then she laughed
"And," I persisted, "are you perfectly sure that you er we shall need it?"
"Perfectly," said Lys. A delicate color touched her cheeks and neck. She held up the little
garment, all fluffy with misty lace and wrought with quaint embroidery.
"It is very gorgeous," said I; "don't use your eyes too much, dearest. May I smoke a pipe?"
"Of course," she said selecting a skein of pale blue silk.
For a while I sat and smoked in silence, watching her slender fingers among the tinted silks
and thread of gold.
Presently she spoke: "What did you say your crest is, Dick?"
"My crest? Oh, something or other rampant on a something or other "
"Dick!"
"Dearest?"
"Don't be flippant."
"But I really forget. It's an ordinary crest; everybody in New York has them. No family
should be without 'em."
"You are disagreeable, Dick. Send Josephine upstairs for my album."
"Are you going to put that crest on the the whatever it is?"
"I am; and my own crest, too."
I thought of the Purple Emperor and wondered a little.
"You didn't know I had one, did you?" she smiled.
"What is it?" I replied evasively.
"You shall see. Ring for Josephine."
I rang, and, when 'Fine appeared, Lys gave her some orders in a low voice, and Josephine
trotted away, bobbing her white-coiffed head with a "Bien, Madame!"

104

After a few minutes she returned, bearing a tattered, musty volume, from which the gold and
blue had mostly disappeared.
I took the book in my hands and examined the ancient emblazoned covers.
"Lilies!" I exclaimed.
"Fleur-de-lis," said my wife demurely.
"Oh!" said I, astonished, and opened the book.
"You have never before seen this book?" asked Lys, with a touch of malice in her eyes.
"You know I haven't. Hello! What's this? Oho! So there should be a de before Trevec? Lys de
Trevec? Then why in the world did the Purple Emperor "
"Dick!" cried Lys.
"All right," said I. "Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec who rode to Saladin's tent alone to
seek for medicine for St. Louise? Or shall I read about what is it? Oh, here it is, all down in
black and white about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva's eyes
rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain? It's all written here. But, dear,
how about that soldier named Trevec who was killed in the old fort on the cliff yonder?"
"He dropped the de, and the Trevecs since then have been Republicans," said Lys "all
except me."
"That's quite right," said I; "it is time that we Republicans should agree upon some feudal
system. My dear, I drink to the king!" and I raised my wine glass and looked at Lys.
"To the king," said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny garment on her knees; she
touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were very sweet. I drained the glass to the king.
After a silence I said: "I will tell the king stories. His majesty shall be amused."
"His majesty," repeated Lys softly.
"Or hers," I laughed. "Who knows?"
"Who knows?" murmured Lys; with a gentle sigh.
"I know some stories about Jack the Giant-Killer," I announced. "Do you, Lys?"
"I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the werewolf, and Jeanne-la-Flamme,
and the Man in Purple Tatters, and O dear me, I know lots more."
"You are very wise," said I. "I shall teach his majesty, English."
"And I Breton," cried Lys jealously.

105

"I shall bring playthings to the king," said I "big green lizards from the gorse, little gray
mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbits from the forest of Kerselec "
"And I," said Lys, "will bring the first primrose, the first branch of aubepine, the first jonquil,
to the king my king."
"Our king," said I; and there was peace in Finistere.
I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume.
"I am looking," said I, "for the crest."
"The crest, dear? It is a priest's head with an arrow-shaped mark on the forehead, on a field
"
I sat up and stared at my wife.
"Dick, whatever is the matter?" she smiled. "The story is there in that book. Do you care to
read it? No? Shall I tell it to you? Well, then: It happened in the third crusade. There was a
monk whom men called the Black Priest. He turned apostate, and sold himself to the enemies
of Christ. A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of only one hundred
lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the very midst of their army."
"So that is how you come by the crest," I said quietly; but I thought of the branded skull in the
gravel pit, and wondered.
"Yes," said Lys. "The Sieur de Trevec cut the Black Priest's head off, but first he branded him
with an arrow mark on the forehead. The book says it was a pious action, and the Sieur de
Trevec got great merit by it. But I think it was cruel, the branding," she sighed.
"Did you ever hear of any other Black Priest?"
"Yes. There was one in the last century, here in St. Gildas. He cast a white shadow in the sun.
He wrote in the Breton language. Chronicles, too, I believe. I never saw them. His name was
the same as that of the old chronicler, and of the other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some said he
was a lineal descendant of the traitor. Of course the first Black Priest was bad enough for
anything. But if he did have a child, it need not have been the ancestor of the last Jacques
Sorgue. They say he was so good he was not allowed to die, but was caught up to heaven one
day," added Lys, with believing eyes.
I smiled.
"But he disappeared," persisted Lys.
"I'm afraid his journey was in another direction," I said jestingly, and thoughtlessly told her
the story of the morning. I had utterly forgotten the masked man at her window, but before I
finished I remembered him fast enough, and realized what I had done as I saw her face
whiten.

106

"Lys," I urged tenderly, "that was only some clumsy clown's trick. You said so yourself. You
are not superstitious, my dear?"
Her eyes were on mine. She slowly drew the little gold cross from her bosom and kissed it.
But her lips trembled as they pressed the symbol of faith.
III
About nine o'clock the next morning I walked into the Groix Inn and sat down at the long
discolored oaken table, nodding good-day to Marianne Bruyere, who in turn bobbed her white
coiffe at me.
"My clever Bannalec maid," said I, "what is good for a stirrup-cup at the Groix Inn?"
"Schist?" she inquired in Breton.
"With a dash of red wine, then," I replied.
She brought the delicious Quimperle cider, and I poured a little Bordeaux into it. Marianne
watched me with laughing black eyes.
"What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?" I asked. "Has Jean Marie been here?"
"We are to be married, Monsieur Darrel," she laughed.
"Ah! Since when has Jean Marie Tregunc lost his head?"
"His head? Oh, Monsieur Darrel his heart, you mean!"
"So I do," said I. "Jean Marie is a practical fellow."
"It is all due to your kindness " began the girl, but I raised my hand and held up the glass.
"It's due to himself. To your happiness, Marianne"; and I took a hearty draught of the schist.
"Now," said I, "tell me where I can find Le Bihan and Max Fortin."
"Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the broad room. I believe they are
examining the Red Admiral's effects."
"To send them to Paris? Oh, I know. May I go up, Marianne?"
"And God go with you," smiled the girl.
When I knocked at the door of the broad room above little Max Fortin opened it. Dust
covered his spectacles and nose; his hat, with the tiny velvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry.
"Come in, Monsieur Darrel," he said; "the mayor and I are packing up the effects of the
Purple Emperor and of the poor Red Admiral."
"The collections?" I asked, entering the room. "You must be very careful in packing those
butterfly cases; the slightest jar might break wings and antennas, you know."

107

Le Bihan shook hands with me and pointed to the great pile of boxes.
"They're all cork lined," he said, "but Fortin and I are putting felt around each box. The
Entomological Society of Paris pays the freight."
The combined collection of the Red Admiral and the Purple Emperor made a magnificent
display.
I lifted and inspected case after case set with gorgeous butterflies and moths, each specimen
carefully labelled with the name in Latin. There were cases filled with crimson tiger moths all
aflame with color; cases devoted to the common yellow butterflies; symphonies in orange and
pale yellow; cases of soft gray and dun-colored sphinx moths; and cases of grayish nettle-bed
butterflies of the numerous family of Vanessa.
All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple emperor, the Apatura Iris, that fatal
specimen that had given the Purple Emperor his name and quietus.
I remembered the butterfly, and stood looking at it with bent eyebrows.
Le Bihan glanced up from the floor where he was nailing down the lid of a box full of cases.
"It is settled, then," said he, "that madame, your wife, gives the Purple Emperor's entire
Collection to the city of Paris?"
I nodded.
"Without accepting anything for it?"
"It is a gift," I said.
"Including the purple emperor there in the case? That butterfly is worth a great deal of
money," persisted Le Bihan.
"You don't suppose that we would wish to sell that specimen, do you?" I answered a trifle
sharply.
"If I were you I should destroy it," said the mayor in his high-pitched voice.
"That would be nonsense," said I, "like your burying the brass cylinder and scroll yesterday."
"It was not nonsense," said Le Bihan doggedly, "and I should prefer not to discuss the subject
of the scroll."
I looked at Max Portin, who immediately avoided my eyes.
"You are a pair of superstitious old women," said I, digging my hands into my pockets; "you
swallow every nursery tale that is invented."
"What of it?" said Le Bihan sulkily; "there's more truth than lies in most of 'em."

108

"Oh!" I sneered, "does the Mayor of St. Gildas and St. Julien believe in the loup-garou?"
"No, not in the loup-garou."
"In what, then Jeanne-la-Flamme?"
"That," said Le Bihan with conviction, "is history."
"The devil it is!" said I; "and perhaps, Monsieur the mayor, your faith in giants is
unimpaired?"
"There were giants everybody knows it," growled Max Fortin.
"And you a chemist!" I observed scornfully.
"Listen, Monsieur Darrel," squeaked Le Bihan; "you know yourself that the Purple Emperor
was a scientific man. Now suppose I should tell you that he always refused to include in his
collection a Death's Messenger?"
"A what?" I exclaimed.
"You know what I mean that moth that flies by night; some call it the Death's Head, but in
St. Gildas we call it 'Death's Messenger.'"
"Oh!" said I, "you mean that big sphinx moth that is commonly known as the 'death's-head
moth.' Why the mischief should the people here call it death's messenger?"
"For hundreds of years it has been known as death's messenger in St. Gildas," said Max
Fortin. "Even Froissart speaks of it in his commentaries on Jacques Sorgue's Chronicles. The
book is in your library."
"Sorgue? And who was Jacques Sorgue? I never read his book."
"Jacques Sorgue was the son of some unfrocked priest I forget. It was during the
crusades."
"Good Heavens!" I burst out, "I've been hearing of nothing but crusades and priests and death
and sorcery ever since I kicked that skull into the gravel pit, and I am tired of it, I tell you
frankly. One would think we lived in the dark ages. Do you know what year of our Lord it is,
Le Bihan?"
"Eighteen hundred and ninety-six," replied the mayor.
"And yet you two hulking men are afraid of a death's-head moth."
"I don't care to have one fly into the window," said Max Fortin; "it means evil to the house
and the people in it."

109

"God alone knows why he marked one of his creatures with a yellow death's head on the
back," observed Le Bihan piously, "but I take it that he meant it as a warning; and I propose to
profit by it," he added triumphantly.
"See here, Le Bihan," I said; "by a stretch of imagination one can make out a skull on the
thorax of a certain big sphinx moth. What of it?"
"It is a bad thing to touch," said the mayor wagging his head.
"It squeaks when handled," added Max Fortin.
"Some creatures squeak all the time," I observed, looking hard at Le Bihan.
"Pigs," added the mayor.
"Yes, and asses," I replied. "Listen, Le Bihan: do you mean to tell me that you saw that skull
roll uphill yesterday?"
The mayor shut his mouth tightly and picked up his hammer.
"Don't be obstinate," I said; "I asked you a question."
"And I refuse to answer," snapped Le Bihan. "Fortin saw what I saw; let him talk about it."
I looked searchingly at the little chemist.
"I don't say that I saw it actually roll up out of the pit, all by itself," said Fortin with a shiver,
"but but then, how did it come up out of the pit, if it didn't roll up all by itself?"
"It didn't come up at all; that was a yellow cobblestone that you mistook for the skull again," I
replied. "You were nervous, Max."
"A a very curious cobblestone, Monsieur Darrel," said Fortin.
"I also was a victim to the same hallucination," I continued, "and I regret to say that I took the
trouble to roll two innocent cobblestones into the gravel pit, imagining each time that it was
the skull I was rolling."
"It was," observed Le Bihan with a morose shrug.
"It just shows," said I, ignoring the mayor's remark, "how easy it is to fix up a train of
coincidences so that the result seems to savor of the supernatural. Now, last night my wife
imagined that she saw a priest in a mask peer in at her window "
Fortin and Le Bihan scrambled hastily from their knees, dropping hammer and nails.
"W-h-a-t what's that?" demanded the mayor.
I repeated what I had said. Max Fortin turned livid.

110

"My God!" muttered Le Bihan, "the Black Priest is in St. Gildas!"
"D-don't you you know the old prophecy?" stammered Fortin; "Froissart quotes it from
Jacques Sorgue:
"'When the Black Priest rises from the dead,
St. Gildas folk shall shriek in bed;
When the Black Priest rises from his grave,
May the good God St. Gildas save!'"
"Aristide Le Bihan," I said angrily, "and you, Max Fortin, I've got enough of this nonsense!
Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been in St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools
like you. If you have nothing better to talk about than nursery legends I'll wait until you come
to your senses. Good-morning." And I walked out, more disturbed than I cared to
acknowledge to myself.
The day had become misty and overcast. Heavy, wet clouds hung in the east. I heard the surf
thundering against the cliffs, and the gray gulls squealed as they tossed and turned high in the
sky. The tide was creeping across the river sands, higher, higher, and I saw the seaweed
floating on the beach, and the lancons springing from the foam, silvery threadlike flashes in
the gloom. Curlew were flying up the river in twos and threes; the timid sea swallows
skimmed across the moors toward some quiet, lonely pool, safe from the coming tempest. In
every hedge field birds were gathering, huddling together, twittering restlessly.
When I reached the cliffs I sat down, resting my chin on my clenched hands. Already a vast
curtain of rain, sweeping across the ocean miles away, hid the island of Groix. To the east,
behind the white semaphore on the hills, black clouds crowded up over the horizon. After a
little the thunder boomed, dull, distant, and slender skeins of lightning unraveled across the
crest of the coming storm. Under the cliff at my feet the surf rushed foaming over the shore,
and the lancons jumped and skipped and quivered until they seemed to be but the reflections
of the meshed lightning.
I turned to the east. It was raining over Groix, it was raining at Sainte Barbe, it was raining
now at the semaphore. High in the storm whirl a few gulls pitched; a nearer cloud trailed veils
of rain in its wake; the sky was spattered with lightning; the thunder boomed.
As I rose to go, a cold raindrop fell upon the back of my hand, and another, and yet another on
my face. I gave a last glance at the sea, where the waves were bursting into strange white
shapes that seemed to fling out menacing arms toward me. Then something moved on the
cliff, something black as the black rock it clutched a filthy cormorant, craning its hideous
head at the sky.
Slowly I plodded homeward across the somber moorland, where the gorse stems glimmered
with a dull metallic green, and the heather, no longer violet and purple, hung drenched and
dun-colored among the dreary rocks. The wet turf creaked under my heavy boots, the black-
thorn scraped and grated against knee and elbow. Over all lay a strange light, pallid, ghastly,
where the sea spray whirled across the landscape and drove into my face until it grew numb

111

with the cold. In broad bands, rank after rank, billow on billow, the rain burst out across the
endless moors, and yet there was no wind to drive it at such a pace.
Lys stood at the door as I turned into the garden, motioning me to hasten; and then for the first
time I became conscious that I was soaked to the skin.
"However in the world did you come to stay out when such a storm threatened?" she said.
"Oh, you are dripping! Go quickly and change; I have laid your warm underwear on the bed,
Dick."
I kissed my wife, and went upstairs to change my dripping clothes for something more
comfortable.
When I returned to the morning room there was a driftwood fire on the hearth, and Lys sat in
the chimney corner embroidering.
"Catherine tells me that the fishing fleet from Lorient is out. Do you think they are in danger,
dear?" asked Lys, raising her blue eyes to mine as I entered.
"There is no wind, and there will be no sea," said I, looking out of the window. Far across the
moor I could see the black cliffs looming in the mist.
"How it rains!" murmured Lys; "come to the fire, Dick."
I threw myself on the fur rug, my hands in my pockets, my head on Lys's knees.
"Tell me a story," I said. "I feel like a boy of ten."
Lys raised a finger to her scarlet lips. I always waited for her to do that.
"Will you be very still, then?" she said.
"Still as death."
"Death," echoed a voice, very softly.
"Did you speak, Lys?" I asked, turning so that I could see her face.
"No; did you, Dick?"
"Who said 'death'?" I asked, startled.
"Death," echoed a voice, softly.
I sprang up and looked about. Lys rose too, her needles and embroidery falling to the floor.
She seemed about to faint, leaning heavily on me, and I led her to the window and opened it a
little way to give her air. As I did so the chain lightning split the zenith, the thunder crashed,
and a sheet of rain swept into the room, driving with it something that fluttered something
that flapped, and squeaked, and beat upon the rug with soft, moist wings.

112

We bent over it together, Lys clinging to me, and we saw that it was a death's-head moth
drenched with rain.
The dark day passed slowly as we sat beside the fire, hand in hand, her head against my
breast, speaking of sorrow and mystery and death. For Lys believed that there were things on
earth that none might understand, things that must be nameless forever and ever, until God
rolls up the scroll of life and all is ended. We spoke of hope and fear and faith, and the
mystery of the saints; we spoke of the beginning and the end, of the shadow of sin, of omens,
and of love. The moth still lay on the floor quivering its somber wings in the warmth of the
fire, the skull and ribs clearly etched upon its neck and body.
"If it is a messenger of death to this house," I said, "why should we fear, Lys?"
"Death should be welcome to those who love God," murmured Lys, and she drew the cross
from her breast and kissed it.
"The moth might die if I threw it out into the storm," I said after a silence.
"Let it remain," sighed Lys.
Late that night my wife lay sleeping, and I sat beside her bed and read in the Chronicle of
Jacques Sorgue. I shaded the candle, but Lys grew restless, and finally I took the book down
into the morning room, where the ashes of the fire rustled and whitened on the hearth.
The death's-head moth lay on the rug before the fire where I had left it. At first I thought it
was dead, but when I looked closer I saw a lambent fire in its amber eyes. The straight white
shadow it cast across the floor wavered as the candle flickered.
The pages of the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue were damp and sticky; the illuminated gold and
blue initials left flakes of azure and gilt where my hand brushed them.
"It is not paper at all; it is thin parchment," I said to myself; and I held the discolored page
close to the candle flame and read, translating laboriously:
"I, Jacques Sorgue, saw all these things. And I saw the Black Mass celebrated in the chapel of
St. Gildas-on-the-Cliff. And it was said by the Abb Sorgue, my kinsman: for which deadly
sin the apostate priest was seized by the most noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him
condemned to be burned with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body and fly to its master
the devil. But when the Black Priest lay in the crypt of Plougastel, his master Satan came at
night and set him free, and carried him across land and sea to Mahmoud, which is Soldan or
Saladin. And I, Jacques Sorgue, traveling afterward by sea, beheld with my own eyes my
kinsman, the Black Priest of St. Gildas, borne along in the air upon a vast black wing, which
was the wing of his master Satan. And this was seen also by two men of the crew."
I turned the page. The wings of the moth on the floor began to quiver. I read on and on, my
eyes blurring under the shifting candle flame. I read of battles and of saints, and I learned how
the Great Soldan made his pact with Satan, and then I came to the Sieur de Trevec, and read
how he seized the Black Priest in the midst of Saladin's tents and carried him away and cut off
his head first branding him on the forehead. "And before he suffered," said the Chronicle, "he
cursed the Sieur de Trevec and his descendants, and he said he would surely return to St.

113

Gildas. 'For the violence you do to me, I will do violence to you. For the evil I suffer at your
hands, I will work evil on you and your descendants. Woe to your children, Sieur de Trevec!'"
There was a whirr, a beating of strong wings, and my candle flashed up as in a sudden breeze.
A humming filled the room; the great moth darted hither and thither, beating, buzzing, on
ceiling and wall. I flung down my book and stepped forward. Now it lay fluttering upon the
window sill, and for a moment I had it under my hand, but the thing squeaked and I shrank
back. Then suddenly it darted across the candle flame; the light flared and went out, and at the
same moment a shadow moved in the darkness outside. I raised my eyes to the window. A
masked face was peering in at me.
Quick as thought I whipped out my revolver and fired every cartridge, but the face advanced
beyond the window, the glass melting away before it like mist, and through the smoke of my
revolver I saw something creep swiftly into the room. Then I tried to cry out, but the thing
was at my throat, and I fell backward among the ashes of the hearth.

When my eyes unclosed I was lying on the hearth, my head among the cold ashes. Slowly I
got on my knees, rose painfully, and groped my way to a chair. On the floor lay my revolver,
shining in the pale light of early morning. My mind clearing by degrees, I looked, shuddering,
at the window. The glass was unbroken. I stooped stiffly, picked up my revolver and opened
the cylinder. Every cartridge had been fired. Mechanically I closed the cylinder and placed the
revolver in my pocket. The book, the Chronicles of Jacques Sorgue, lay on the table beside
me, and as I started to close it I glanced at the page. It was all splashed with rain, and the
lettering had run, so that the page was merely a confused blur of gold and red and black. As I
stumbled toward the door I cast a fearful glance over my shoulder. The death's-head moth
crawled shivering on the rug.
IV
The sun was about three hours high. I must have slept, for I was aroused by the sudden gallop
of horses under our window. People were shouting and calling in the road. I sprang up and
opened the sash. Le Bihan was there, an image of helplessness, and Max Fortin stood beside
him polishing his glasses. Some gendarmes had just arrived from Quimperle, and I could hear
them around the corner of the house, stamping, and rattling their sabres and carbines, as they
led their horses into my stable.
Lys sat up, murmuring half-sleepy, half-anxious questions.
"I don't know," I answered. "I am going out to see what it means."
"It is like the day they came to arrest you," Lys said, giving me a troubled look. But I kissed
her and laughed at her until she smiled too. Then I flung on coat and cap and hurried down the
stairs.
The first person I saw standing in the road was the Brigadier Durand.
"Hello!" said I, "have you come to arrest me again? What the devil is all this fuss about,
anyway?"

114

"We were telegraphed for an hour ago," said Durand briskly, "and for a sufficient reason, I
think. Look there, Monsieur Darrel!"
He pointed to the ground almost under my feet.
"Good heavens!" I cried, "where did that puddle of blood come from?"
"That's what I want to know, Monsieur Darrel. Max Fortin found it at daybreak. See, it's
splashed all over the grass, too. A trail of it leads into your garden, across the flower beds to
your very window, the one that opens from the morning room. There is another trail leading
from this spot across the road to the cliffs, then to the gravel pit, and thence across the moor to
the forest of Kerselec. We are going to mount in a minute and search the bosquets. Will you
join us? Bon Dieu! but the fellow bled like an ox. Max Fortin says it's human blood, or I
should not have believed it."
The little chemist of Quimperle came up at that moment, rubbing his glasses with a colored
handkerchief.
"Yes, it is human blood," he said, "but one thing puzzles me: the corpuscles are yellow. I
never saw any human blood before with yellow corpuscles. But your English Doctor
Thompson asserts that he has "
"Well, it's human blood, anyway isn't it?" insisted Durand, impatiently.
"Ye-es," admitted Max Fortin.
"Then it's my business to trail it," said the big gendarme, and he called his men and gave the
order to mount.
"Did you hear anything last night?" asked Durand of me.
"I heard the rain. I wonder the rain did not wash away these traces."
"They must have come after the rain ceased. See this thick splash, how it lies over and weighs
down the wet grass blades. Pah!"
It was a heavy, evil-looking clot, and I stepped back from it, my throat closing in disgust.
"My theory," said the brigadier, "is this: Some of those Biribi fishermen, probably the
Icelanders, got an extra glass of cognac into their hides and quarreled on the road. Some of
them were slashed, and staggered to your house. But there is only one trail, and yet and
yet, how could all that blood come from only one person? Well, the wounded man, let us say,
staggered first to your house and then back here, and he wandered off, drunk and dying, God
knows where. That's my theory."
"A very good one," said I calmly. "And you are going to trail him?"
"Yes."
"When?"

115

"At once. Will you come?"
"Not now. I'll gallop over by-and-bye. You are going to the edge of the Kerselec forest?"
"Yes; you will hear us calling. Are you coming, Max Fortin? And you, Le Bihan? Good; take
the dog-cart."
The big gendarme tramped around the corner to the stable and presently returned mounted on
a strong gray horse, his sabre shone on his saddle; his pale yellow and white facings were
spotless. The little crowd of white-coiffed women with their children fell back as Durand
touched spurs and clattered away followed by his two troopers. Soon after Le Bihan and Max
Fortin also departed in the mayor's dingy dog-cart.
"Are you coming?" piped Le Bihan shrilly.
"In a quarter of an hour," I replied, and went back to the house.
When I opened the door of the morning room the death's-head moth was beating its strong
wings against the window. For a second I hesitated, then walked over and opened the sash.
The creature fluttered out, whirred over the flower beds a moment, then darted across the
moorland toward the sea. I called the servants together and questioned them. Josephine,
Catherine, Jean Marie Tregunc, not one of them had heard the slightest disturbance during the
night. Then I told Jean Marie to saddle my horse, and while I was speaking Lys came down.
"Dearest," I began, going to her.
"You must tell me everything you know, Dick," she interrupted, looking me earnestly in the
face.
"But there is nothing to tell only a drunken brawl, and some one wounded."
"And you are going to ride where, Dick?"
"Well, over to the edge of Kerselec forest. Durand and the mayor, and Max Fortin, have gone
on, following a a trail."
"What trail?"
"Some blood."
"Where did they find it?"
"Out in the road there." Lys crossed herself.
"Does it come near our house?"
"Yes."
"How near?"

116

"It comes up to the morning room window," said I, giving in.
Her hand on my arm grew heavy. "I dreamed last night "
"So did I " but I thought of the empty cartridges in my revolver, and stopped.
"I dreamed that you were in great danger, and I could not move hand or foot to save you; but
you had your revolver, and I called out to you to fire "
"I did fire!" I cried excitedly.
"You you fired?"
I took her in my arms. "My darling," I said "something strange has happened something
that I cannot understand as yet. But, of course, there is an explanation. Last night I thought I
fired at the Black Priest."
"Ah!" gasped Lys.
"Is that what you dreamed?"
"Yes, yes, that was it! I begged you to fire "
"And I did."
Her heart was beating against my breast. I held her close in silence.
"Dick," she said at length, "perhaps you killed the the thing."
"If it was human I did not miss," I answered grimly. "And it was human," I went on, pulling
myself together, ashamed of having so nearly gone to pieces. "Of course it was human! The
whole affair is plain enough. Not a drunken brawl, as Durand thinks; it was a drunken lout's
practical joke, for which he has suffered. I suppose I must have filled him pretty full of
bullets, and he has crawled away to die in Kerselec forest. It's a terrible affair; I'm sorry I fired
so hastily; but that idiot Le Bihan and Max Fortin have been working on my nerves till I am
as hysterical as a schoolgirl," I ended angrily.
"You fired but the window glass was not shattered," said Lys in a low voice.
"Well, the window was open, then. And as for the the rest I've got nervous indigestion,
and a doctor will settle the Black Priest for me, Lys."
I glanced out of the window at Tregunc waiting with my horse at the gate.
"Dearest, I think I had better go to join Durand and the others."
"I will go, too."
"Oh, no!"

117

"Yes, Dick."
"Don't, Lys."
"I shall suffer every moment you are away."
"The ride is too fatiguing, and we can't tell what unpleasant sight you may come upon. Lys,
you don't really think there is anything supernatural in this affair?"
"Dick," she answered gently, "I am a Bretonne." With both arms around my neck, my wife
said, "Death is the gift of God. I do not fear it when we are together. But alone oh, my
husband, I should fear a God who could take you away from me!"
We kissed each other soberly, simply, like two children. Then Lys hurried away to change her
gown, and I paced up and down the garden waiting for her.
She came, drawing on her slender gauntlets. I swung her into the saddle, gave a hasty order to
Jean Marie, and mounted.
Now, to quail under thoughts of terror on a morning like this, with Lys in the saddle beside
me, no matter what had happened or might happen was impossible. Moreover, Mme came
sneaking after us. I asked Tregunc to catch him, for I was afraid he might be brained by our
horses' hoofs if he followed, but the wily puppy dodged and bolted after Lys, who was trotting
along the highroad. "Never mind," I thought; "if he's hit he'll live, for he has no brains to
lose."
Lys was waiting for me in the road beside the Shrine of Our Lady of St. Gildas when I joined
her. She crossed herself, I doffed my cap, then we shook out our bridles and galloped toward
the forest of Kerselec.
We said very little as we rode. I always loved to watch Lys in the saddle. Her exquisite figure
and lovely face were the incarnation of youth and grace; her curling hair glistened like
threaded gold.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the spoiled puppy Mme come bounding cheerfully
alongside, oblivious of our horses' heels. Our road swung close to the cliffs. A filthy
cormorant rose from the black rocks and flapped heavily across our path. Lys's horse reared,
but she pulled him down, and pointed at the bird with her riding crop.
"I see," said I; "it seems to be going our way. Curious to see a cormorant in a forest, isn't it?"
"It is a bad sign," said Lys. "You know the Morbihan proverb: 'When the cormorant turns
from the sea, Death laughs in the forest, and wise woodsmen build boats.'"
"I wish," said I sincerely, "that there were fewer proverbs in Brittany."
We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could see the sparkle of gendarmes'
trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan's silver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took
it without difficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durand stood
gesticulating.

118

They bowed ceremoniously to Lys as we rode up.
"The trail is horrible it is a river," said the mayor in his squeaky voice. "Monsieur Darrel, I
think perhaps madame would scarcely care to come any nearer."
Lys drew bridle and looked at me.
"It is horrible!" said Durand, walking up beside me; "it looks as though a bleeding regiment
had passed this way. The trail winds and winds about here in the thickets; we lose it at times,
but we always find it again. I can't understand how one man no, nor twenty could bleed
like that!"
A halloo, answered by another, sounded from the depths of the forest.
"It's my men; they are following the trail," muttered the brigadier. "God alone knows what is
at the end!"
"Shall we gallop back, Lys?" I asked.
"No; let us ride along the western edge of the woods and dismount. The sun is so hot now,
and I should like to rest for a moment," she said.
"The western forest is clear of anything disagreeable," said Durand.
"Very well," I answered; "call me, Le Bihan, if you find anything."
Lys wheeled her mare, and I followed across the springy heather, Mme trotting cheerfully in
the rear.
We entered the sunny woods about a quarter of a kilometer from where we left Durand. I took
Lys from her horse, flung both bridles over a limb, and, giving my wife my arm, aided her to
a flat mossy rock which overhung a shallow brook gurgling among the beech trees. Lys sat
down and drew off her gauntlets. Mme pushed his head into her lap, received an undeserved
caress, and came doubtfully toward me. I was weak enough to condone his offense, but I
made him lie down at my feet, greatly to his disgust.
I rested my head on Lys's knees, looking up at the sky through the crossed branches of the
trees.
"I suppose I have killed him," I said. "It shocks me terribly, Lys."
"You could not have known, dear. He may have been a robber, and if not did
have you ever fired your revolver since that day four years ago when the Red Admiral's son
tried to kill you? But I know you have not."
"No," said I, wondering. "It's a fact, I have not. Why?"
"And don't you remember that I asked you to let me load it for you the day when Yves went
off, swearing to kill you and his father?"

119

"Yes, I do remember. Well?"
"Well, I I took the cartridges first to St. Gildas chapel and dipped them in holy water. You
must not laugh, Dick," said Lys gently, laying her cool hands on my lips.
"Laugh, my darling!"
Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst, and the sunlight burned like orange flame
through the yellow leaves of beech and oak. Gnats and midges danced and wavered overhead;
a spider dropped from a twig halfway to the ground and hung suspended on the end of his
gossamer thread.
"Are you sleepy, dear?" asked Lys, bending over me.
"I am a little; I scarcely slept two hours last night," I answered.
"You may sleep, if you wish," said Lys, and touched my eyes caressingly.
"Is my head heavy on your knees?"
"No, Dick."
I was already in a half doze; still I heard the brook babbling under the beeches and the
humming of forest flies overhead. Presently even these were stilled.
The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears ringing with a scream, and I saw Lys
cowering beside me, covering her white face with both hands.
As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my knees. I saw my dog rush growling
into a thicket, then I heard him whimper, and he came backing out, whining, ears flat, tail
down. I stooped and disengaged Lys's hand.
"Don't go, Dick!" she cried. "O God, it's the Black Priest!"
In a moment I had leaped across the brook and pushed my way into the thicket. It was empty.
I stared about me; I scanned every tree trunk, every bush. Suddenly I saw him. He was seated
on a fallen log, his head resting in his hands, his rusty black robe gathered around him. For a
moment my hair stirred under my cap; sweat started on forehead and cheek bone; then I
recovered my reason, and understood that the man was human and was probably wounded to
death. Ay, to death; for there at my feet, lay the wet trail of blood, over leaves and stones,
down into the little hollow, across to the figure in black resting silently under the trees.
I saw that he could not escape even if he had the strength, for before him, almost at his very
feet, lay a deep, shining swamp.
As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig. At the sound the figure started a little, then its
head fell forward again. Its face was masked. Walking up to the man, I bade him tell where he
was wounded. Durand and the others broke through the thicket at the same moment and
hurried to my side.

120

"Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest's robe?" said the gendarme loudly.
There was no answer.
"See see the stiff blood all over his robe," muttered Le Bihan to Fortin.
"He will not speak," said I.
"He may be too badly wounded," whispered Le Bihan.
"I saw him raise his head," I said, "my wife saw him creep up here."
Durand stepped forward and touched the figure.
"Speak!" he said.
"Speak!" quavered Fortin.
Durand waited a moment, then with a sudden upward movement he stripped off the mask and
threw back the man's head. We were looking into the eye sockets of a skull. Durand stood
rigid; the mayor shrieked. The skeleton burst out from its rotting robes and collapsed on the
ground before us. From between the staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurted a torrent of
black blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then the thing shuddered, and fell over into the
black ooze of the bog. Little bubbles of iridescent air appeared from the mud; the bones were
slowly engulfed, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight, up from the depths and along the
bank crept a creature, shiny, shivering, quivering its wings.
It was a death's-head moth.

I wish I had time to tell you how Lys outgrew superstitions for she never knew the truth
about the affair, and she never will know, since she has promised not to read this book. I wish
I might tell you about the king and his coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted. I wish
that I were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boar hunt in Quimperle,
and how the hounds raced the quarry right through the town, overturning three gendarmes, the
notary, and an old woman. But I am becoming garrulous and Lys is calling me to come and
hear the king say that he is sleepy. And his highness shall not be kept waiting.
THE KING'S CRADLE SONG
Seal with a seal of gold
The scroll of a life unrolled;
Swathe him deep in his purple stole;
Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal,
Drops of gold in each scented fold.
Crimson wings of the Little Death,
Stir his hair with your silken breath;
Flaming wings of sins to be,
Splendid pinions of prophecy,

121

Smother his eyes with hues and dyes,
While the white moon spins and the winds arise,
And the stars drip through the skies.
Wave, O wings of the Little Death!
Seal his sight and stifle his breath,
Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed;
From north to north, from west to west,
Wave, O wings of the Little Death!
Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies,
And the ghosts of God arise.

THE END

Fifteen ghost stories from writers like Edgar
Allan Poe, Guy de Maupassant, Ambrose
Bierce, Algernon Blackwood, Arthur Machen
and many others.

Pages: 248
ISBN: 9781409265252

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122

What is Cryptozoology?
Cryptozoology (from Greek , kryptos, "hidden" + zoology; literally, "study of hidden
animals") is a pseudoscience involving the search for animals whose existence has not been
proven. The animals cryptozoologists study are often referred to as cryptids, a term coined by
John Wall in 1983. This includes looking for living examples of animals that are considered
extinct, such as non-avian dinosaurs; animals whose existence lacks physical evidence but
which appear in myths, legends, or are reported, such as Bigfoot and Chupacabra; and wild
animals dramatically outside their normal geographic ranges, such as phantom cats (also
known as Alien Big Cats).
Cryptozoology is not a recognized branch of zoology or a discipline of science. It is an
example of pseudoscience because it relies heavily upon anecdotal evidence, stories and
alleged sightings.
Overview
The coining of the word cryptozoology is often attributed to Belgian-French zoologist Bernard
Heuvelmans, though Heuvelmans attributes coinage of the term to the late Scottish explorer
and adventurer Ivan T. Sanderson. Heuvelmans' 1955 book On the Track of Unknown
Animals traces the scholarly origins of the discipline to Anthonie Cornelis Oudemans and his
1892 study, The Great Sea Serpent. Heuvelmans argued that cryptozoology should be
undertaken with scientific rigor, but with an open-minded, interdisciplinary approach. He also
stressed that attention should be given to local, urban and folkloric sources regarding such
creatures, arguing that while often layered in unlikely and fantastic elements, folktales can
have small grains of truth and important information regarding undiscovered organisms.
Phantom cats (an example of living animals supposedly found outside of their normal range)
are a common subject of cryptozoological interest, largely due to the relative likelihood of
existence in comparison to fantastical cryptids lacking any evidence of existence, such as
Mothman.
Another notable book on the subject is Willy Ley's Exotic Zoology (1959). Ley was best
known for his writings on rocketry and related topics, but he was trained in paleontology, and
wrote a number of books about animals. Ley's collection Exotic Zoology is of some interest to
cryptozoology, as he discusses the Yeti and sea serpents, as well as relict dinosaurs. The book
entertains the possibility that some legendary creatures (like the sirrush, the unicorn or the
cyclops) might be based on actual animals, through misinterpretation of the animals and/or
their remains. Also notable is the work of British zoologist and cryptozoologist Karl Shuker,
who has published 12 books and countless articles on numerous cryptozoological subjects
since the mid-1980s. Loren Coleman, a modern popularizer of cryptozoology, has chronicled
the history and personalities of cryptozoology in his books.
Hallmarks
Many species appear in cryptozoological literature, including mythical and folkloric animals,
such as Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, which have appeared commonly as cultural
references, and within TV, movies, and other media. A few extant species such as the okapi
and mountain gorilla are also commonly used by cryptozoologists as examples of animals
they say were previously thought to be cryptids, but are now known to exist. These species

123

are rarely anticipated by cryptozoologists before their discovery by science, but are
nonetheless often depicted as hallmarks of cryptozoology.
Bigfoot is one of the most well known cryptids.
The Yeti.
The okapi was discovered in 1901, and had been hinted at (but unseen) by Henry
Morton Stanley in his travelogue of exploring the Congo. The okapi later became the
emblem for the now defunct International Society of Cryptozoology.
Before 1912, the komodo dragon was thought to be a mythological creature, and was
called the giant monitor.
The Hoan Kiem Turtle.
The mountain gorilla.
The 2003 discovery of the fossil remains of Homo floresiensis was cited by paleontologist
Henry Gee, editor of the journal Nature, as possible evidence that humanoid cryptids like the
Orang Pendek and yeti were "founded on grains of truth." "Cryptozoology," Gee said, "the
study of such fabulous creatures, can come in from the cold." While cryptozoologists are
often unable to properly follow the scientific method due to the nature of their work, the vast
majority still reject supernatural explanations for cryptid sightings, preferring to keep
explanations as plausible as possible without ruling out the cryptid's existence.
Criticism
Cryptozoology has been criticised because of its reliance on anecdotal information and
because some cryptozoologists do not follow the scientific method
[20][21]
and devote a
substantial portion of their efforts to investigations of animals that most scientists believe are
unlikely to have existed.
Cryptozoologists contend that because species once considered superstition, hoaxes,
delusions, or misidentifications were later accepted as legitimate by the scientific community,
descriptions and reports of folkloric creatures should be taken seriously.
[23]

According to Mike Dash, a Welsh historian, few scientists doubt there are thousands of
unknown animals, particularly invertebrates, awaiting discovery; however, cryptozoologists
are largely uninterested in researching and cataloging newly discovered species of ants or
beetles, instead focusing their efforts towards "more elusive" creatures that have often defied
decades of work aimed at confirming their existence. The majority of mainstream criticism of
cryptozoology is thus directed towards the search for megafauna cryptids such as Bigfoot, the
Yeti, and the Loch Ness Monster, which appear often in popular culture, but for which there is
little or no scientific support. Some scientists argue that megafauna cryptids are unlikely to
exist undetected in great enough numbers to maintain a breeding population and are unlikely
to be able to survive in their reported habitats owing to issues of climate and food supply.
Another criticism is that actual discoveries of new species have rarely, if ever, been predicted
by cryptozoologists. Critics note that while other researchers have stumbled upon real
animals, cryptozoologists have focused on finding legendary creatures with no success.


124

Curious Creatures in Zoology by John Ashton - a cryptozoological
classic from Ulwencreutz Media. First published in 1890. This
work covers a wide variety of curious natural history that had been
reported by early writers and explorers. Fact and fancy were both
commonplace. Some creatures are well-known (dragons, sea
monsters) while others, like the Su, are less so. Paperback.

212 pages
ISBN 9781409231844
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Mythical Monsters by Charles Gould - a cryptozoological classic
from Ulwencreutz Media. First published in 1886. This classic
discussion of mythical creatures attempts to show that there may
be some basis for fact in several legendary animals. With a strong
emphasis on the Oriental region, Gould notes the legends and
folklore concerning dragons, sea serpents, unicorns, and the
Chinese phoenix. Paperback. Illustrated.
336 pages.
ISBN 9781409231851
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A cryptozoological classic from Ulwencreutz Media.
This book was originally privately published in 1886 in Edinburgh. In
this publication, Goldsmid brought together rare treatises written in
the 1600's which discussed strange and mythical creatures. These
fascinating works attempted to separate fact from fiction. While we
may not today reach the same conclusions, they provide us with a rare
glimpse into the minds of those early scholars who were struggling to
understand the world around them. The treatises were written by
George Caspard Kirchmayer (On the Basilisk; On the Unicorn; On
the Phoenix; On the Behemoth; the Leviathan; On the Dragon; On the
Spider), Hermann Grbe (On the Sting of the Tarantula), and Isaac
Schoockius (On Chameleons; On Bears licking their Offspring into
perfect Shape; On Satyrs, Mermaids, Men with Tails, etc.).

112 pages
ISBN 9781409232612
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125

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