Page:Weird Tales Volume 2 Number 2 (1923-09).djvu/87

True Adventures of Terror Conducted by Preston Langley Hickey

While most of the material in WEIRD TALES is, of course, fiction, we are of the belief that there are innumer- able persons who have lived through experiences as weird, terrible and horrifying as anything ever chronicled by a fictionist. This belief, and the fact that WEIRD TALES deals exclusively with the bizarre and unusual, has resulted in the establishment of THE CAULDRON.

Readers who have had a hand in strange adventures, or who have been victims of experiences of a startling and terrifying nature, are cordially invited to send accounts of them to THE CAULDRON. A concrete idea of what is desired may be ascertained by reading this month's contributions. Manuscripts may be as horrible and hair-raising as it is in the power of the author to make them, but they must be clean from a moral standpoint. Those accepted will be paid for at our usual rate. Tell your story clearly and briefly. Double-spaced, typewritten manuscripts are preferred, but those in long hand will be considered if legibly written. No manuscript will be returned unless accompanied by a stamped and self addressed envelope.

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IN ONE of the most rugged sections of central Pennsylvania, along the West Branch of the Susquehanna river, there is an old story-and-a-half log cabin. It is surrounded by neglected fruit trees and a heavy under-growth that has been there so long that it encroaches on the doors and windows.

The cabin is entered through a small hall, or vestibule. The one large room, which occupies the rest of the first floor, opens from this hall. A steep staircase also leads from the vestibule to the attic-like second floor.

Pat McClosky had built this cabin shortly after the Civil War. He was a mean, tight-fisted Irishman, whose occupation was farming, but who was shrewd enough to have come by many ill-gotten gains through trading. Money was his dearest possession. This he kept hidden in various places about the premises.

One day, after Pat had lived there alone for about thirty-five years, his nearest neighbor, who lived over a mile away, found him dead in front of his doorstep with a knife wound in his back.

Many stories have since been circulated among the people of the community—stories of how Pat McClosky's ghost comes to the cabin at night. For this reason, the place has remained vacant.

Not believing in ghosts, two friends and I rented this deserted cabin for a couple of weeks during the fishing season. We agreed to meet there the first day; but, when I arrived, I found a message which stated that neither of my friends would be with me until the following day. This left me to spend the first night alone. I was tired; and, just as it was getting dark, I lay down on one of the cots and fell asleep.

A heavy clap of thunder awoke me. It was beginning to rain. As the wind was blowing drops of water in my face, I jumped up and closed the window. When I turned to get back into my cot, a flash of lightning lit up the room and, through the half-open door, showed a glimpse of a figure in the hall.

"Pat's ghost!" flashed in my mind as I stood there in the darkness. Then, with three steps, I reached the door, slammed it shut, and bolted it.

Recovering from my fright, I stood leaning against the closed door and said aloud to my- self, "What's the matter with me? I must have been dreaming."

But my reasoning did not entirely reassure me; for, when I wiped cold perspiration from my face I still thought that I certainly had seeen something. I lit my acetylene lamp. Then I opened my suitcase, took out my flash- light and an automatic pistol, and placed them near my pillow.

With these, I again laughed at my foolish- ness. For fully twenty minutes I sat trying to solve the mystery. The wind went whoo- whee-whoo through the chinks of the logs. Vivid flashes of lightning showed the bushes bending in the storm. The rain beat against the window. Sharp claps of thunder ended in heavy rumblings. Finally, I put out the light and lay down again; trying to dismiss the thought that Pat McClosky's ghost was slinking about me that night.

It was not long, however, until I was again startled. This time it was a noise in the attic. It sounded like the dragging of an inert body across the floor. This was followed by heavy thumps such as might be made with a padded hammer. Sitting up, I reached and got the flash-light and the automatic.

Again, I heard the noise. This time I jumped from my cot. The sound lasted longer, and the dragging sound was followed by light footsteps. A few moments later the same noise came from the hall outside my door. I was too numb with fright to move. I ex- pected the door to open any second. Then I collected my nerve enough to snap on my light and level my gun to shoot. As my finger touched the trigger, the thought came to me that it might be a human being.

"Who's there?" I called, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible so I would not betray my fright. There was no answer. "I'm going to open the door and shoot," I cried, stepping nearer. "I give you fair warning."

The only reply was soft footsteps and three thumps. I slid back the bolt and flung the door wide open. As I did so, I must have snapped off my light, for I was left in black darkness. I shrank back from the opening almost paralyzed with fear. The footsteps came toward me. A rustling sound and the thumping was repeated. I fumbled with the electric lamp. The light flashed into the hall. I saw a long-haired, white dog scratching fleas.

— J. P. CRONISTER.

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WHILE taking news weeklies for the Pathe Film Company near Constanti- nople, I had an unusual adventure which is rather difficult to relate. In fact, I never men- tion it except in the presence of close friends for fear of being dubbed peculiar. To the east of Constantinople stretches & desolate region of waste and sand. Nomadic tribes form the sole population of this arid region.

While making a film showing departing troops, I had a valuable fur overcoat stolen by some bandits. With the coat went my quarter's pay, which I had thrust inside one of the pockets. Well armed, and accompanied by two friends, I pursued the robbers and recov- ered my property.

Night gives no warning of its approach in Turkey, but comes with startling suddenness when the sun drops past the horizon. To one who is accustomed to the softer shading of twilight, the close of day in the treeless wastes of Turkey is something of an experience. We noted the disappearing sun and began to look around for a suitable spot to camp. An oasis lay to our right and we made for it.

We were passing a camp of nomads when we were stopped by a toothless hag, who told us brokenly that she was a soothsayer. Baron, one of my friends, gave her a coin to humor her and we started on our way; but she would not have it so. She told us emphatically, as best she could, that it was death to sleep in the spot we had chosen. She said that any one, who ventured to sleep in the shelter of the wicked one, was visited by the Velvet Death—that he never opened his eyes again in this world. Baron could speak Turkish much better than I, and it was to him that she told the tale. Of course we went ahead as we had planned, just as any one else would have done.

After it had grown quite dark, we sat around the campfire which blazed cheerfully, and it was then that we spoke of the old hag's warning. Baron scoffed about it, but Pickett, the other member of our party, was not so skeptical. He began talking of other weird, unaccountable adventures which he had experienced in different parts of the world, for he had been something of a wanderer all his life. Soon, he had us decidedly nervous. At last, we decided to keep a night watch,