Page:Weird Tales Volume 6 Number 1 (1925-07).djvu/77

For five years old Jim Creighton closed copper switches at the break of dawn in that little room in the state penitentiary. For five years, whenever his hand was called, it grasped the black handle and sent the death-dealing voltage on its way. Many men, with heads shaved, arms and legs pinioned to the sides of the last chair they would ever occupy, sat in an agony of suspense, until Creighton's hand twisted their bodies into unconsciousness. The same morning invariably found the old executioner in the great city a little to the south, rummaging about the seed stores and the florists, asking questions, frequenting the library for botanical data. The warden had given him the usual amount—he must grow a red lily—they had all been so white—for five long year now. . . .

Then one day, a biting March wind driving a thick rain of sleet through the somberness of the late afternoon, the shrill screech of the locomotive's whistle sounded on the bend of track above Birndale. The through express rumbled to a stop before the station, and its accustomed passenger climbed into the end car.

As the train pounded on again, down the long gray breadth of river, the sleet hurled itself against the car windows with redoubled fury, voicing tattoo of small, ticking noises. The red plush seat on which Creighton was sitting was damp. A pungent odor of wet wood and steam permeated the car, arising from the leaky radiator that sputtered protestingly at one end. Creighton was the only occupant.

The mask of cold, glittering insanity that usually covered his shriveled features seemed unsettled. Something was wrong. The distorted brain throbbed in its attempt to fathom what was the matter with him. At times the troubled expression of a child grappling with something it does not understand invaded his countenance, making it appear almost foolish in its mixed portrayal. The old man was breaking, although his cramped mind refused to let him see it. Creighton's wasted body, his diseased brain, were falling under an inevitable strain that was slowly eating its path, dragging him down.

A brakeman opened the door at the end of the car, allowing the rush of air to whisk up a crumpled newspaper from the floor and whirl it across Creighton's knees. With a muttered curse, he flung the paper from him. He had not looked at a newspaper since the day he saw his boy's name on the casualty list.

There was another reason why Creighton never read a newspaper, resulting from his journeys down the river valley to that "special stop." Somewhat contrary to the cruel cunning of his insanity, he entertained a morbid fear of seeing the printed name of any man he was going to put to death or of anyone whose lime-covered corpse he knew lay lifeless as the result of his pulling down that black-handled copper switch. Funny sentiments for an executioner, even a lunatic, weren't they?

Hours passed. They seemed minutes to Creighton. None of the other trips had ever troubled him before. It was not the voice of a conscience, long silenced; a maniac is never bothered with a conscience. It was more a vague feeling of impending disaster; his head pained frightfully, little throbbing stabs shooting through his temples. If he could only grow a red lily—that was the trouble! He must grow a red lily soon, or something would happen. He'd go insane if he didn't grow a red lily. He wouldn't go to the city this time, he decided. He'd go right back to his greenhouse. Perhaps they'd be red, dripping red, when he saw them again. A grimacing smirk, by which the old man portrayed a contented happiness at his decision, came over his features. Yes,