Page:Weird Tales Volume 4 Number 2 (1924-05-07).djvu/97

feel "That Thing" clawing at my back; I could hear the rasping, twanging noise of its claws being drawn across those protruding teeth. I prayed then and I thank God now for strength to run. Although my legs seemed paralyzed and my joints seemed to be sore and stiff, I knew that I was gaining on Chad.

But Chad disappeared. One moment he was just a few steps ahead of me. Now, he was gone—like that. I saw him. I never took my eyes off him until he disappeared.

Then something went wrong with me. I was sinking. The earth was sinking beneath me. I could feel something crawling and squirming under me. Was it "That Thing"? No, I felt the boot legs and knew it was Chad. Then I felt bones, the frame of a man's chest. Then I knew we had fallen into an open grave. We had seen many times a slightly sunken place in the ground not far from the tent and I had meant to examine it, but now I knew what it was. It was an old grave. No doubt it had once held the body of one of Jean Lafitte's victims, but now the flesh had returned to dust, the crude coffin had amalgamated with the soil, and the worms of the earth had devoured the hair, and there was nothing left but bones, just bones, lifeless bones.

I reached for Chad's boot-legs. I wanted to feel them again; I wanted to feel something that was warm with life, not cold and feelingless like bones, dead bones. Instead I felt . . . instead of feeling Chad's legs . . . instead of feeling something warm with life, I felt, I felt something crawling and crinkling and squirming. I felt jelly, slushy slime that quivered in my fingers, and I felt claws at my throat. Then "That Thing" began laughing and chattering. It was triumphant laughter and defiant chatter. Then it stopped and hissed. Oh! Savior of Souls, those teeth, and that rasping, twanging noise of claws being drawn across protruding teeth!

I see "That Thing" now. It is here. It is there. It is everywhere. Chad! Come back, Chad! Come to your old comrade, boy, and help me fight. I helped you, Chad, that night when we were young. Come, Chad! Come! Come!

Too late! It has me by the throat now, dragging me and munching and crunching upon my bones. Maybe it's the bones of the man in whose grave I am lying with "That Thing." My bones and his. But everything is just bones.

Richard Brandon, common executioner or hangman, at that time, died upon Wednesday, June 20, 1649, within five months after the king’s martyrdom. The Sunday before Brandon died, a young man of his acquaintance, going to visit him, asked him how he did, and whether he was not troubled in conscience for cutting off the king's head? Brandon replied, "Yes, because he was at the king's trial, and heard the sentence denounced against him, which caused the said Brandon to make this solemn vow or protestation, viz: 'Wishing God to perish his body and soul, if ever he appeared on the scaffold to do the act, or lift up his hand against him'." And he further declared, that he was no sooner entered upon the scaffold, (to do the wicked act) but he immediately fell a trembling, and hath (ever since) to his death continued in the same agony. He likewise confessed that he had 30 pounds for his pains, all paid him in half crowns within half an hour after the stroke was struck; and that he had an orange stuck full of cloves, and an handkerchief out of the king's pocket. As soon as he was carried off from the scaffold, he was offered 20s for that orange by a gentleman in Whitehall, but refused the same, but afterwards sold it for 10s in Rosemary-lane. About six o'clock that night he returned home to his wife, living in Rosemary-lane, and gave her money, saying it was the dearest money he ever earned in his life; which prophetical words were soon made manifest. About three days before he died, (as above mentioned) he lay speechless, utteing many a sigh and heavy groan, and in a most deplorable manner departed from his bed of sorrow. For his burial great store of wine was sent in by the city of London, and a great multitude of people stood waiting to see his corpse carried to the church-yard, some crying out, "Hang him, rogue, bury him in a dunghill," others pressing upon him, saying, they would quarter him for executing the king; insomuch, that the churchwardens and masters of the parish were fain to come for the suppressing of them, and with difficulty at last he was carried to Whitechapel church-yard, having a bunch of rosemary at each end of the coffin, and on top thereof, with a rope tied across from one end to the other.

The man that waited upon this executioner, when he gave the fatal blow was a rag man in Rosemary-lane.

In Housie's Memoirs, Vol. I., page 485, a little circumstance is recorded concerning the decapitation of the unfortunate Anne Boleyn which illustrates an observation of Hume. Our historian notices that her executioner was a Frenchman of Calais, who was supposed to be uncommonly skilful; it is probable that the following incident may have been proved by tradition in France, from the account of the executioner himself. Anne Boleyn being on the scaffold, would not consent to have her eyes covered with a bandage, saying that she had no fear of death. All that the minister, who assisted at her execution, could obtain from her, was that she would shut her eyes. But as she was opening them at every moment, the executioner was fearful of missing his aim, and was obliged to invent an expedient to behead the queen. He drew off his shoes, and approached her silently; while he was at her left hand, another person advanced at her right, who made a great noise in walking, so that this circumstance drew the attention of Anne; she turned her face from the executioner, who was enabled by this circumstance to strike the fatal blow without being disarmed by that spirit of affecting resignation which shone in the eye of the lovely but unfortunate victim.