Page:Weird Tales Volume 27 Number 02 (1936-02).djvu/105

bad—they are having trouble with the line. I cannot hear you. I want Mrs. Bowen, I have a telegram for her. Is this Mrs. Bowen? Will you speak louder, please?"

"Yes, yes," she groaned. "But please, I want———"

"I will read your telegram now," the voice went on. "'Mrs. Roger Bowen, Laurel House, Galeville, Connecticut. Regret to inform you Roger Bowen died suddenly here today. Please wire disposition of body.' Signed Henry Adams, Warden San Marco Penitentiary. This connection is so poor, I'm afraid—there it goes!"

A series of sharp, sputtering clicks and the line went dead, as though it had suddenly frozen under the long piling weight of the snow. And almost as the telephone connection went, the electric lights faded, brightened, dimmed out at last to dark bulbs, and slowly the lighted candle on her dresser seemed to grow stronger in the dimness.

But Mrs. Roger Bowen was not aware of the telephone or the lights. She was watching the candle from the corners of her eyes. It seemed to her that two thin crooked brown hands were slowly descending out of the darkness toward the flaring flame.

The hands made her think—yes, they made her think of two spiders.

Ella Winslow stared at her husband's terrified eyes and tried to smile reassuringly. This can't be happening to Arthur, she thought helplessly; he's too sensible, too matter-of-fact. . . . She said, unevenly, "Eat your toast, dear."

He nodded mechanically, ran a shaky hand through his thick gray hair. His voice frightened her more than his eyes: it was so high-pitched, so utterly convinced.

"But, Ella, the dreams are so real! They always start the same way. Pitch-dark. I can't see a thing. All I know is that I'm standing on a railroad track, cold with fear. I can hear the hum and click of steel rails and I know there's an invisible train rushing toward me at express speed. No bell, no whistle, not a sound. . . . And then, with an ear-splitting shriek of wind, the train rushes right through my body. And instantly, the darkness is gone—I can see clearly. I'm standing in the center of the track, watching myself on the rear platform of that train as it roars away from me. . . ."

"Drink a little more coffee, dear," his wife said gently.

"There are green bushes along the