Page:Weird Tales Volume 2 Number 2 (1923-09).djvu/88

and drew lots to see which one should stay up the first part of the night. The lot fell to me. I remember how I tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom that seemed to hover over our little camp. After the others had turned in, I tried to keep my mind from dwelling on the old hag's warning, but I could not forget her or her evident sincerity in try- ing to prevent us from camping in the spot we had chosen. The air seemed humid, almost unclean. I sat before the fire and watched the flames playing around the twigs.

Suddenly I sat upright. I had been dozing, and it was with difficulty that I forced myself to waken. I felt as if iron bands shackled every muscle and my throat was parched. I tried to swallow in an effort to relieve the choking sensation I was experiencing, but my mouth, like my throat, was bone dry. I be- gan to work my arms up and down, and then did likewise with my legs until I had gotten my circulation started sufficiently to rise. With difficulty, I made my way to Baron and Pickett.

When I played my flashlight upon them, I was startled by the greenish cast to their faces. I managed to waken Baron, but we could not get Pickett to stir. We worked over him for thirty minutes, but only groans re- warded us. Baron shook his head.

"I say, Trefon, that old fortune teller was right. There is something eerie about this place. I feel like I was on my last legs—all in. Don't you feel it?"

I told him how difficult it had been for me to waken myself. We decided that our safety lay in flight and we lost no time. We were not ashamed to acknowledge our fear of the unknown danger that threatened us. That is, Baron and I were not, for Pickett never wakened.

We took him back to Constantinople on an improvised stretcher and they diagnosed his case as malaria. His temperature was 105 when we reached the city. He lived just three days after our return. The third day after our fatal camp near the oasis, Baron and I broke out from head to foot with boils. Today I have the scars all over my body to testify to their severity.

Baron and I have often discussed this ex- perience of ours in the valley of the "velvet death," and we have never been able to decide just what the peculiar death-dealing force could have been. Perhaps it was an odorless poison given off by some of the plants at night. The name, which the old hag had given, would suggest something stealing upon the sleeper unaware. But we have never been able to sat- isfy ourselves on the subject.

HENRY TREFON.

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FOR an hour I had been dozing before the fireplace in my den when I was awakened by the sudden slamming of the door and turned to see my friend Armstrong, pale and agitated, as he peered cautiously about.

"Bill," he whispered, "I've had a hideous experience; in fact, I don't know yet whether it was just a dream or real. It was so un- canny—so weird."

"Well, old top," I answered calmly, "what's up now? Another wild escapade?"

"No, Bill, there is some degree of serious- ness about the matter," he declared, as he sat staring into the blaze. "Do you remember Yee Hong?"

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"Who?" I interrupted, "that chink friend of yours? Gosh, he looked to you as a little tin Buddha; really though, he was a queer character."

"Queer? Heavens, man, he's possessed of the devil. Last night he invited me to dine with him at his quarters at Avondale Circle. There's really nothing extraordinary about that, for he's always extending me invitations, but last night was out of the ordinary. His apartment was decked out in typical oriental style. Well, before I was in the apartment five minutes, Yee Hong requested me to visit his new labora- tory... which I did, although the moment I was beyond the door I felt extremely uneasy.

Rows of chemicals lined the further wall, and all about were instruments for experi- mental purposes. I had been in the room but a short time when I became aware of a thick, oily smoke, brown in color, arising from a small earthen crucible as if by command. The chamber became hazy; vaguely I heard Yee Hong explaining a certain acid, and then, of a sudden, the fog of oily vapor overcame me, my head was in a whirl, my knees wabbled and with a gnawing sensation at the pit of my stomach I fell unconscious."

"What was the stuff?" I broke in.

"I only wish I knew. To go on, however, when I came to myself, I was seated at the supper table. All the specialties of the Orient were placed before me. I was hungry—strange to say and did justice to the meal. Hong talked in an interesting tone, explaining the source of each delicacy of the East. Finally the coffee was served, black, stimulating Java coffee. My spirits had risen and I felt quite myself for about half an hour. Then my limbs became numb. Again that sensation of lightness returned and suddenly the glow of the Chinese lanterns dimmed. Yee Hong stared at me intently as if he were studying certain features about me—and then moved slowly away.

Suddenly a dark-cloaked figure darted from somewhere—God only knows where—uttering excitedly in disconnected guttural syllables, 'Yee Hong—murdered—brother.'

Then we were in utter darkness—two strong, sinewy arms seized me. I tried to cry out but my lungs refused to function. I struggled as one does in a dream. With superhuman strength I tore away from the vise-like grip of my hidden adversary. I seemed to laugh, to shout; I felt light headed, and then.

My friend drew forth a short black-jack with an odd design carved near the end.

"This seems to link the supernatural with the real, Bill. I grasped this weapon; I must have wrested it from the hands of the cloaked figure. At any rate I swung it about my head like a tomahawk. As one walking in his sleep I wandered about the apartment until sudden- ly I struck something, something that had resisting power... there was a thud... then silence.

"Now, Bill, here is the uncanny part about my experience. When I came to my senses, I was in my own apartment, reclining com- fortably in a Morris chair, a half-smoked cigar in the ash-tray at my side, a novel in my lap and the light of the reading lamp over my shoulder."

"Oh, Arthur, come out of it," I scoffed. "You probably had some Welsh rarebit for supper. Forget it, old top, forget it."

"But Bill, here's the black-jack as proof," retorted Armstrong indignantly. "I tell you something's wrong. My theory is that I was doped and..."

Just then the telephone drowned out further conversation.

"Hello," I said. "What's that? Another murder case? I'll come right over."

"Hey, Arthur, come back to life," I said. "Let's go over to headquarters. I've another inkling for a story."

In half an hour we entered headquarters. "Good evening, lieutenant; what's up?" I asked.

Lieutenant Brunt looked solemn, his brow