Page:Weird Tales Volume 29 Number 1 (1937-01).djvu/51

swiftly within his coat. That animalesque lunge of Ethredge's, so untrue to the man's real character, had shattered Marilyn Des Lys' spell like a hammer crashing against a soap-bubble. The little paperknife flashed thinly.

A scream, vibrant with terror, burst from Marilyn Des Lys' throat. She shrank backward, half turning, struggling to free herself from Ethredge's encircling arms. And then Peters struck.

The narrow blade sheared through her woolen dress, sank hilt-deep in her shrinking breast. A ring of crimson blood jutted through the thick cloth.

She shuddered, and her fingers clutched the weapon's delicate hilt. Slowly, Ethredge supporting her, she sank to the floor. A brief, spasmodic trembling, and she lay still. The blood no longer spread across her breasts; its flow had ceased.

"She is dead!" Ethredge's words were stark and low. "You have killed her, Peters!"

But Peters did not hear. He was watching that still form on the floor at his feet.

The thing had not changed; it was to all appearances the body of a murdered woman!

Peters wiped his hands tremblingly across his forehead.

"Dear Lord!" he whispered. "We've got a—corpse on our hands!"

There was a brisk knocking at the door!

"Who's screaming in there?" It was the landlady's voice.

"Go about your business, landlady!" Peters growled. "This doesn't concern you—keep away from that door!"

Cold beads of perspiration standing on his forehead, he turned back to Ethredge and the body of Marilyn Des Lys. . . .

A startled, horrified gasp burst from his taut lips. For Ethredge was kneeling over that beautiful, still body, his eyes curiously glazed, curiously fixed. It was as though he listened to the soundless voice of the dead!

And somehow Peters knew, knew that the malignant spirit of Marilyn Des Lys, still hovering close in that room, bound by some fast-weakening ectoplasmic thread to that dead body, was reaching out hungrily to Ethredge, dipping deep into his life-stuff, absorbing from his willing body the ectoplasm that would form the nucleus for a new body!

For Ethredge's face was turning gray, and his cheeks were sinking, falling in before Peters' eyes! Slowly he sank closer to the corpse until he sprawled supinely across it.

Cursing, Peters leaped to his feet, a wild, weird hope flaming through his brain.

"Landlady!" His voice was a hoarse, choked croaking. "Stop eavesdropping and get to the telephone; call Lincoln 6-1747! Get Mary Roberts—Mary Roberts—get her here at once, and to hell with traffic laws! Understand? Mary Roberts—Lincoln 6-1747."

He dropped to his knees, clenched his fists into Ethredge's shoulders, dragged his chief from that thing on the floor.

The mad, listening glare on Ethredge's face was fading.

"Dear God!" Peters thought. "He's dying!"

Leaden minutes passed. Ethredge's face was steadily thinning, becoming more hollow, more gaunt. His clothes lay about him loosely, he was breathing in quick, rattling gasps.

And then there was the quick rush of frantic footsteps up the stairs, along the hall. Peters leaped to the door, opened it just wide enough to admit Mary, slammed it quickly in the landlady's face.

"Charles! Oh, Charles boy!"

Mary reeled against Peters, stark horror in her eyes. That thing on the floor,