The Best Horror Stories of

Fragment

And so his boyhood wandered into youth,

And still the hazes thickened round his head,

And red, lascivious nightmares shared his bed

And fantasies with greedy claw and tooth

Burrowed into the secret parts of him--

Gigantic, bestial and misshapen paws

Gloatingly fumbled each white youthful limb,

And shadows lurked with scarlet gaping jaws.

Deeper and deeper in a twisting maze

Of monstrous shadows, shot with red and black,

Or gray as dull decay and rainy days,

He stumbled onward. Ever at his back

He heard the lecherous laughter of the ghouls.

Under the fungoid trees lay stagnant pools

Wherein he sometimes plunged up to his waist

And shrieked and scrambled out with loathing haste,

Feeling unnumbered slimy fingers press

His shrinking flesh with evil, dank caress.

Life was a cesspool of obscenity--

He saw through eyes accursed with unveiled sight--

Where Lust ran rampant through a screaming Night

And black-faced swine roared from the Devil's styes;

Where grinning corpses, fiend-inhabited,

Walked through the world with taloned hands outspread;

Where beast and monster swaggered side by side,

And unseen demons strummed a maddening tune;

And naked witches, young and brazen-eyed,

Flaunted their buttocks to a lustful moon.

Rank, shambling devils chased him night on night,

And caught and bore him to a flaming hall,

Where lambent in the flaring crimson light

A thousand long-tongued faces lined the wall.

And there they flung him, naked and a-sprawl

Before a great dark woman's ebon throne.

How dark, inhuman, strange, her deep eyes shone!

Which Will Scarcely Be Understood

Small poets sing of little, foolish things,

As more befitting to a shallow brain

That dreams not of pre-Atlantean kings,

Nor launches on that dark uncharted Main

That holds grim islands and unholy tides,

Where many a black mysterious secret hides.

True rime concerns her not with bursting buds,

The chirping bird, the lifting of the rose--

Save ebon blooms that swell in ghastly woods,

And that grim, voiceless bird that ever broods

Where through black boughs a wind of horror blows.

Oh, little singers, what know you of those

Ungodly, slimy shapes that glide and crawl

Out of unreckoned gulfs when midnights fall,

To haunt a poet's slumbering, and close

Against his eyes thrust up their hissing head,

And mock him with their eyes so serpent-red?

Conceived and bred in blackened pits of hell,

The poems come that set the stars on fire;

Born of black maggots writhing in a shell

Men call a poet's skull--an iron bell

Filled up with burning mist and golden mire.

The royal purple is a moldy shroud;

The laurel crown is cypress fixed with thorns;

The sword of fame, a sickle notched and dull;

The face of beauty is a grinning skull;

And ever in their souls' red caverns loud

The rattle of cloven hoofs and horns.

The poets know that justice is a lie,

That good and light are baubles filled with dust--

This world's slave-market where swine sell and buy,

This shambles where the howling cattle die,

Has blinded not their eyes with lies and lust.

Miscellanea

Golnor the Ape

There are those of you who will not understand how I, the village fool, the imbecile, the beastman, might set down the strange happenings which took place in the sea-coast village where I wandered aforetime, warring with the fen wolves for refuse. But the tale of how I, Golnor the Ape, became a man, has its place in the tale, which is an eery tale and a curious one.

How I came by my strange name, which has no meaning in any language of the world, is easy to say, for it was myself that gave it to me, for the words of men; though the tavern keeper on whose doorstep I was left one summer night called me by some other name which I have forgotten.

My first memory is of sprawling among wine-barrels, on the dirty flag floor and--but I started not to pen the tale of the life of Golnor the Ape. Let my younger years fade back into the strange haze from which they came, with their strange dreams and visions, their monstrous, mystic shapes, and the rest: the scrubbing of floors and tankards, the beatings, the petty persecutions--let them fade as the name the tavern keeper gave me has faded.

I do not know how old I was when Helene de Say came to the village of Fenblane. When first I saw her, I was wading in the marsh upon the moor, searching for mussels, and I looked up as she rode by on a great white horse. Now, a white horse was a wonderful being to me and I stood gaping after them, but giving little heed to the girl. I was dimly aware that she shrank from me as she passed, and her face showed loathing, but all humans were the same with Golnor the Ape.

I was a large man, not tall, but the sweep of my sloping shoulders was wide, and mighty was my chest. I bent forward as I walked, lurching on bow legs, my long arms swinging. They were twisted and massive, those arms, with lean, corded muscles, powerful, unbeautiful. As I never had shoes, my feet were large, shapeless and remarkably tough. But mayhap my most primitive feature was my hair. Long, wild and coarse, of a rough dun color, it tumbled over my low, slanting forehead; and through it, from beneath beetling, overhanging brows, my small eyes glittered eerily. Those eyes saw many things unknown to the human race, for in my youth I lived in two worlds. There were the lecas, for instance. I conversed with them constantly and it was they who told me all the strange secrets of the Dim World. And there were others, gerbas and monsters, who sometimes drove me shrieking across the moor, and would have dragged me back to that world entirely if they had had power.

I could not describe any of those beings to you, for there are no words in your language that would fit anything about them. I could speak their language much better than I could that of the villagers of Fenblane, and even now the speech comes strange to me so that my talking sounds not like the talking of other men.

Sometimes I would wander in the village, to do such work as I had the intelligence to do, and receive in turn food which the villagers did not want. More often I roamed about the fen, hunting clams and mussels, and contending with the wolves for their kill. Often I would climb the lonely cliffs that looked out across the sea, and sit there for hours, thinking strange, grotesque thoughts--thoughts which now, being a man, I can scarcely remember. If I could find people who would tolerate me for awhile, I would strive to tell them of my thoughts and of the lecas who flitted about me, and of the beings who danced incessantly on the waves. But the result was always a gibberish so strange that the people would either laugh at me or beat me.

Then sometimes, when the sea was flailing the cliffs, and the wind was yelling among the crags and lashing my wild hair about my eyes, I would thrill with a strange, furious elation, become wildly excited, and standing upright, leaning to the might of the wind, I would brandish my arms and mock the gale, and try to tell the lecas all that surged in my soul. But there again I was handicapped, for the lecas knew no more of my human world than the villagers of Fenblane knew of theirs. I was a strange half-being pausing on the threshold of two worlds.

There was once, when, in a gust of futile passion, and without knowing why, I leaped from the cliff and hurtled down, down, down, until I crashed among the white-crested waves and plunged down through them for fathoms, until I floated up again and by some strange miracle was flung ashore, bruised and battered but unharmed.

I liked the cliffs with their singing wind-noises, and the bellowing ocean, but in the village and on the fen I sought food. When a child, people in the village kicked and beat me so that I liked not to go there, though the persecution ceased when I grew older and stronger. Just outside the village, however, overlooking it, loomed the ancient castle of the de Says, and there I liked to go, for the building was one of curiosity and admiration to me, though usually old Dame de Say sent her servants to beat me away.

However, on icy nights I have slept in the stables, unknown to the old shrew, among the horses who minded not my company. Beasts never feared me, nor I them, feeling perhaps a greater kinship toward them than toward humans.

Helene was niece to the old Dame, whom she resembled not at all. It was outside the castle I saw the girl again. I had come there to catch another look at the great white horse, which I thought marvelous, having never seen one like him, and the servants sallied forth to drub me with cudgels.

They had not struck one blow when there sounded a quick, light step behind us, and Helene stepped between. Her eyes, fine, grey eyes, were flashing, and I mazily realized that she was beautiful.

"What!" she exclaimed, as the servants cringed back before her. "Would you beat this creature? Have you no shame?"

"Your aunt commanded us to thrash him," said one of the servants.

"I care not. You will obey me." Then as they hastened to get away she turned to me. "What is your name?"

"Golnor, mistress; aye, I am Golnor. I can scrub tankards and clean stables and chop wood and row boats."

"Never mind." She smiled and her teeth were like pearls. "Come to the kitchen and I will give you food."

I was her slave from that moment. Not that I followed her about to do her bidding. The old Dame would never have tolerated that, nor do I think that Helene, for all her kindness, would have cared to have been followed by a filthy imbecile in scanty and ragged garments.

There was rain on the day that the Baron rode down to the village of Fenblane. Squatting among the fenrushes and talking with the lecas, I did not see him, nor hear his horse splashing through the mud until he loomed above me, and slashed me with his riding whip as I scrambled out of the way.

A great, dark man was he, with gleaming eyes and thin, cruel lips. A rapier swung at his hip, and he was clothed finely, but about him hovered the lurid yellow haze that marks a wicked soul, and which only a creature of the shadow world may see.

Where would he be riding but to Castle de Say to see the girl of whom he had heard? Later I saw him riding back through the rain, a smile on his lips. I watched him, eyes aglitter, until he was only a moving smudge in the curtain of rain, at last vanishing entirely. Usually I forgot anything or anyone the instant I was out of sight. The world, the universe, was represented by the village of Fenblane and a great circle which included moor, cliffs and sea. When one rode out of Fenblane, he or she rode out of the world.

But I remembered the Baron and the wicked smile on his lips, until I saw him again.

There was sun and a clear windy sky when I next saw Helene. She and her aunt had ridden out on the moor and they dismounted beside a lake, sat upon the bank and let the horses graze. Unnoticed, I stole up close and listened to what they said.

"But I will not!" said Helene. "I do not love the man--"

"You shall learn," said the old Dame. "And this talk of love is foolishness. The Baron is a strong man and has gold and lands."

"But Francois--"

"Bah. A penniless student. I shall not allow you to make a fool of yourself."

"But--"

"Enough, I tell you. If the Baron wishes your hand, he shall have you."

"But perhaps he will not wish me."

"Then you shall find ways of encouraging him. What? Bah. Have your silly notions of honor ever put gold in your purse or garments on your back? You will do as I say."

Presently they mounted their horses and rode away and I sat me down to muse over what had been said and to study meaning from their words. I thought and thought until my head was dizzy, but could make nothing of it, so gave it up and went searching for clams.

Later I climbed the cliffs as the moon rose over the sea, making a path of silver light across the waves. I again turned my mind toward the conversation. Words and phrases flitted through my mind, and putting them together to piece out complete thoughts was like a puzzle.

Finally I gave it up entirely, and one day, wandering among the cliffs, decided to visit the Witch of Wolf

's Cavern. She was among the few humans who would tolerate me for a short while, for I always gave her the village gossip, garbled and labored to be sure, but from the gibberish she could usually piece together information to use to her own advantage. I was in awe of her somewhat, but had I had intelligence I would have despised her, for, far from having enough knowledge of the occult to understand my vague talk of lecas and gerbas and the like, she clothed those beings with the likenesses of the demons and familiars of her own tawdry and filthy witchcraft. She considered me devil-ridden, haunted by her own worldly spirits, whereas I was simply an imbecile, an inhabitant of two worlds.

Her cave overlooked the lake-ridden fen, and she usually sat, cross-legged, staring into the fire which burned incessantly. Beatrice--strange name for a witch; but she had once been beautiful.

Spectres in the Dark

The following item appeared in a Los Angeles paper, one morning in late summer:

"A murder of the most appalling and surprizing kind occurred at 333--Street late yesterday evening. The victim was Hildred Falrath, 77, a retired professor of psychology, formerly connected with the University of California. The slayer was a pupil of his, Clement Van Dorn, 33, who has, for the last few months, been in the habit of coming to Falrath's apartment at 333----Street for private instruction. The affair was particularly heinous, the aged victim having been stabbed through the arm and the breast with a dagger, while his features were terribly battered. Van Dorn, who appears to be in a dazed condition, admits the slaying but claims that the professor attacked him and that he acted only in self defense. This plea is regarded as the height of assumption, in view of the fact that Falrath has for many years been confined to a wheel chair. Van Dorn gave bail and is under surveilance."

I had settled myself comfortably with a volume of Fraser's Golden Bough when a loud and positive rap on my door told me that I was not to enjoy an evening alone. However, I laid the book down with no very great reluctance, for as all raps have their peculiarities, I knew that Michael Costigan craved a few hours' chat and Michael was always an interesting study.

He lumbered in, filling the room in his elephantine way, as out of place among the books, paintings and statues as a gorilla in a tea-room. He snarled something in reply to my greeting and seated himself on the edge of the largest chair he could find. There he sat silent for a moment, chafing his mallet-like hands together, his head bent between his huge shoulders. I watched him, unspeaking, taking in again the immensity of him, the primitive aura which he exuded; admiring again the great fists with their knotty, battered knuckles, the low, sloping forehead topped by a rough mass of unkempt hair, the narrow, glinting eyes, the craggy features marked by many a heavy glove. I sat, intrigued by the workings of his heavy features as the clumsy brain sought to shape words to suit the thought.

"Say," he spoke suddenly but gropingly as he always spoke at first. "Say, lissen, do youse believe in ghosts?"

"Ghosts?" I looked at him a moment without replying, lost in a sudden revery--ghosts; why this man himself was a ghost of mine, a spectre of my old, degenerate days, always bringing up the years of wandering and carousal and drifting.

"Ghosts?" I repeated. "Why do you ask?"

He seemed not entirely at ease. He twined his heavy fingers together and kept his gaze concentrated on his feet.

"Youse know," he said bluntly, "youse know dat I killed Battlin' Roike a long time ago."

I did. I had heard the story before and I wondered at the evident connection of his remarks about ghosts, and about the long dead Rourke. I had heard him before disclaim any feelings of remorse or fear of after judgment.

"De breaks uh de game," he expressed it. Yet now:

"Ev'body knows," he went on slowly, "dat I had nuttin' agin him. Roike knows dat himself."

I wondered to hear him speak of the man in the present tense.

"No, it wuz all in de game. We had bad luck, dat wuz all, bad fer Roike an' bad fer me. We wuz White Hopes--dat wuz de jinx--youse know."

I tapped a finger nail on the chair arm and nodded, thinking of Stanley Ketchel, Luther McCarty, James Barry and Al Palzer, all White Hopes, touted to wrest the heavy-weight title from the great negro, Jack Johnson, and all of whom died violent deaths, at the height of their fame.

"Yeh, dat wuz it. I come up in Jeffries' time but after I beat some good men dey began to build me fer a title match, as uh White Hope. I wuz matched wid Battlin' Roike, another comer an' de winner wuz tuh fight Johnson. For nineteen rounds it wuz even," his great hands were clenched, a steely glint in his eyes as if he were again living through that terrible battle--"we wuz bot' takin' a lotta punishment--den we bot'

went down in de twentieth round at de same time. I got on me feet just as the referee wuz sayin' 'Ten!'

but Roike died dere in de ring. De breaks uh de game, dat's wot it wuz and dat's all. Bat Roike knows I had nuttin' agin him and he ain't got no reason tuh be down on me."

The last sentence was spoken in a strangely querulous manner.

"Why should you care?" I asked in the callous manner of my earlier life. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yeh--but say, lissen. I wouldn't say dis to anybody else, see? But you got savvy; you're my kind, under de skin, see? You been in de gutter and you know de ropes. You know a boid like me ain't got no more noives den uh rhino. You know I ain't afraid uh nuttin', don'tcha? Sure yuh do. But lissen. Somethin'

damn' queer is goin' on in my rooms. I'm gittin' so's I don't like tuh be in de dark an' de landlady is raisin' Cain 'cause I leave de light on all night. Foist t'ing I saw dat wuzn't on de up-an'-up wuz several nights ago w'en I come in me room. I tell yuh, somethin' wuz in dere! I toined on de light an' went t'rough de closets an' under de bed but I didn't find a t'ing an' dere wuz no way for a man tuh git out without me seein' him. I fergot it, see, but de next night it wuz de same way. Den I began to SEE things!"

"See things!" I started involuntarily. "You better lay off the booze."

He made an impatient gesture. "Naw, 'tain't de booze; I can't go dis bootleg stuff an' anyway I got outa de habit when I wuz trainin'. Jes' de same, I see t'ings."

"What kind of things."

"Things." He waved his hand in a vague manner. "I don't jes' see 'um, but I feel 'um."

I regarded him with growing wonder. Hitherto imagination had formed a small part in his makeup.

"Shadows, like," he continued, evidently at a loss to explain his exact sensations. "Stealin' an' slidin'

around w'en the light's off. I can't see 'um but I can see 'um. I know they're there, so I'm bound tuh see

'um, ain't I?

"Yeh, dey--or it--I don't know which. De udder night I nearly saw 'um." His voice sank broodingly. "I come in an' shut de door an' stand dere in de dark a minute, den I KNOW dat somethin' is beside me. I let go wid me left but all I do is skin me hand an' knock a panel outta de door. W'en I toin on de light, de room is empty. I tell yuh"--the voice sank yet lower and the wicked eyes avoided mine sullenly--"I tell yuh, either I'm bugs or Bat Roike is hauntin' me!"

"Nonsense." I spoke abruptly but I was conscious of a queer sensation as if a cold wind had blown upon me from a suddenly opened door. "It's neither. You changed your habits too much; from a gregarious, restless adventurer, you've become almost a recluse. The change from the white lights and the clamor of the throng to a second rate boarding house and a job in a poolhall is too great. You brood too much and think too much about the past. That's the way with you professional athletes; when you quit active competition, you forget the present entirely. Get out and tramp some more; forget Battling Rourke; change boarding places. It isn't good for a man of your nature to think too much. You're too much of an extrovert--if you know what that means. You need lights and crowds and fellowship, too."

"Mebby you're right," he muttered. "Dis is gettin' on me noives, sure. I been talkin' to uh bootlegger wot wants me tuh go in wid him, woikin' outa Mexico; mebbe I'll take him up." Suddenly he rose abruptly.

"Gettin' late," he said shortly. A moment he turned at the door and I could have sworn I saw a gleam in his cold grey eyes--was it fear? A moment later his huge hand shut the door behind him and his footsteps died away in the distance.

The next morning my breakfast room was invaded by my closest friend, Hallworthy, and his young wife.

This young lady, a slim little twenty year old beauty, perched herself on my knee and held up a pair of rosy lips to be kissed. Her husband did not object in the least, however, because his wife happens to be my sister.

"This is a truly remarkable hour for a visit," I remarked. "How did you ever get this Young American up this early, Malcolm?"

"The most terrible thing!" the girl interrupted. "I can't imagine--"

"Let me tell it, Joan," said Hallworthy mildly. "Steve, you knew Clement Van Dorn, didn't you, and Professor Falrath?"

"I know Clement Van Dorn very intimately and have heard him speak of Falrath."

"Look here." Hallworthy laid a Los Angeles paper before me. I read the item he pointed out, attentively.

"Falrath murdered by Van Dorn, his best friend? I am surprized."

"Surprized!" exclaimed Hallworthy. "I am astounded! Nonplussed! Dumfounded! Why, outside the fact that they were the best of friends, Clement Van Dorn had the greatest abhorrence of violence that I ever saw in a man! It was almost an obsession with him! He kill a man? I don't believe it!"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"There is but a thin veneer over the savagery of all of us," I said calmly. "I, who have seen life, both at its highest and its lowest, assure you of this. Trivial things can assume monstrous proportions and loose, for an instant, the primal savage, roaring and red handed. I have seen a man kill his best friend over a checker game. Men are only men and the primitive, monstrous instincts still hold sway in the dim corners of the mind."

"Not among men like Van Dorn," Hallworthy dissented. "Why, Steve, Clement is positively bloodless in his erudition. He was out of his element anywhere but in Greenwich Village, where he was an authority on the most pallid form of vers libre and cubist art."

"I agree with Malcolm," said Joan, taking his arm, her protective feminism uppermost. "I don't believe Clement killed him."

"We shall soon know," I answered. "We're going to see Clement."

This necessitated a trip to the prison, for Van Dorn's bail had been remanded and he was being held for trial. Van Dorn, a slim, pallid youth with delicate and refined features, paced his cell and gesticulated jerkily with his slender, artistic hands as he talked. His hair was tousled, his eyes bloodshot; he was unshaven. His universe had crashed about him; his standards were upset. He had lost his mental equilibrium. Looking at him, I felt that if he were not already insane, that he was hovering on the verge of insanity.

"No, no, no!" he kept exclaiming. "I don't understand it! It's monstrous, a terrible nightmare! They say I murdered him--that's preposterous! How do they account for the fact that when we were found his body was clear across the room from his wheel chair?"

"Tell us the whole thing, old fellow," Hallworthy's voice came, soothing, calm. "We're your friends, you know, and we will believe you."

"Yes, tell us, Clement," echoed Joan, her large eyes tender with pity for the wretched youth.

Van Dorn pressed his hands to his temples as if to still their throbbing, his face twisted in mental torment.

"This is the way of it," he said haltingly. "I've told this tale over and over but no one believes me. I've been going up to Professor Falrath's apartment nearly every night for the past week and he was explaining Spencer's principles, the deeper phases of them. I never saw a man who possessed such a store of metaphysical learning, or who had gone deeper into the roots of things in general. Why, there never were two greater friends. That night we were sitting and talking as we had been and I stepped over to a table to get a book. When I turned"--he closed his eyes tightly, shook his head as if to rid himself of some inner vision, then stared fixedly at us, his hands clenched--"when I turned, Professor Falrath was rising out of his chair; that in itself was astonishing, because he hasn't left the chair in years, but his face held me in frozen silence. My God, that face!" He shuddered violently. "There was no likeness of Professor Falrath, no HUMAN likeness in those frightful features! It was as if Falrath had vanished and in his place sat a horrid Spectre from some other sphere. The Thing leaped from the chair and hurled itself toward me, fingers stretched like claws. I screamed and fled toward the door but it was in front of me; it closed in on me and in desperation I fought back. Violence of any sort has always repelled me; I have always looked upon the exercize of physical force as a return to bestiality. As for killing, the very sight of blood from a cut finger always nauseated me. But now, I was no longer a civilized man, but a wild beast fighting frenziedly for life. Falrath tore my clothing to pieces and his nails left long tears in my skin; I struck him again and again in the face but without effect.

"At last I secured--how I know not for all is a scarlet haze of horror--a dagger which was one of his collection of arms--this I drove through his wrist and the start of the blood weakened and revolted me.

Yet, as he still pressed his attack, I steeled myself and thrust it through his bosom. He fell dead and I, too, fell in a dead faint."

We were silent for a time following this weird narration.

"We've stayed our limit, Clement," I said presently. "We will have to go, but rest assured that you will receive all the aid possible. The only solution I can see, is that Professor Falrath was the victim of a sudden homicidal insanity, which might have temporarily overcome his physical weaknesses as you say."

Clement nodded but there was no spark of hope in his eyes, only a bleak and baffled despair. He was not suited to cope with the rough phases of life, which until now he had never encountered. A weakling, morally and physically, he was learning in a hard school that savage fact of biology--that only the strong survive.

Suddenly Joan held out her arms to him, her mothering instinct which all women have touched to the quick by his helplessness. Like a lost child he threw himself on his knees before her, laid his head in her lap, his frail body racked with great sobs as she stroked his hair, whispering gently to him--like a mother to her child. His hands sought hers and held them as if they were his hope of salvation. The poor devil; he had no place in this rough world; he was made to be mothered and cared for by women--like so many others of his kind.

There were tears in Joan's eyes as we came out of the cell and Hallworthy's face showed that he too had been deeply touched.

I had learned that a detective had been put to work on the case--rather an unusual procedure since Van Dorn had confessed to the killing, but the object was to find the motive.

The detective working on the case gave his views as follows: "Van Dorn is just bugs, I figure. One of these fellows that was born half cookoo and completed the job by hanging around such crazy places as Greenwich Village where they're all crazy and liable to kill anybody just for the sensation." (Evidently his knowledge of artists and the New Thought was gathered from ten-cent movies.) "He and the old professor must have had a row and he killed Falrath, dragged his body across the room, tore his own clothes and then lay down and pretended to be in a faint when the people, who had heard the noise, come busting in at the door. That's the way I think it was. Must have been a terrible thing, Falrath's face was twisted all out of shape; didn't scarcely look like a human."

"What do you think?" asked Hallworthy as we were on our way back.

"I think what I said to Van Dorn. That Clement is telling the truth and that Falrath was insane."

"Yet, could even violent insanity cause a man of Falrath's age and disability to spring on and nearly kill a younger man with his bare hands? Could insanity have put strength in those shrivelled muscles and bloodless tissues which had refused to even support his frail body for so many years?"

"That--or else Van Dorn is lying or insane himself," I answered, and for a time the conversation was dropped. Van Dorn had plenty of money and at the time I could see no way in which we could aid him.

At the trial something might come up.

That night as I turned out the light, preparatory to retiring, I had an opportunity to observe the power of thought suggestion. Michael Costigan's tale had been revolving in the back of my mind and as I plunged the room in darkness, I smiled to myself at the hint of movement in the shadows about me, which my vivid imagination created.

"Suicide follows sudden attack of insanity. The people of a boarding house on--Street were last night roused by a terrific commotion going on in an upstairs room, and upon investigation found Michael Costigan, ex-prizefighter, engaged in a debauchery of destruction, smashing chairs and tables and tearing the doors from their hinges, in the darkness of his room. A light being turned on, Costigan, a man of huge frame and remarkable strength, stopped short in what was apparently a battle with figments of his imagination, stared wildly at the astounded watchers, then suddenly snatched a revolver from the hand of the landlady and placing the muzzle against his breast, fired four shots into his body, dying almost instantly. The theory advanced is that Costigan was a victim of delirium tremens, but he was not known to be a drinking man. The landlady maintains that he was insane, and asserts that he had been talking strangely for some time."

Laying down the paper in which I had read the above article, I gave myself over to musing. This indeed was unusual. Had Costigan's obsession of Battling Rourke's ghost driven him to suicide or was this obsession merely one of the incidents of a latent insanity which had finally destroyed him? This seemed more likely; a man like Costigan was not one to kill himself because of a fancied "ghost" even though he had confessed to a partial belief in its existence. Moreover, considering the terrible punishment he had received in his years in the ring, it was likely that his mentality had been affected.

I picked up the paper and idly scanned the columns, glancing over the usual lists of murders and assaults, which seemed extraordinarily numerous, somehow.

Later in the day I paid a visit to the Hallworthys who lived not overly far from my apartments. I could tell that their minds were still running on Van Dorn and deliberately steered all talk into other channels.

I leaned back in my easy chair regarding the two who sat on a lounge before me. Malcolm Hallworthy was such a man as I had always hoped my sister would marry; a kind man, kind almost to a fault, generous and gentle, yet not weak like Van Dorn. He was not many years older than Joan but he seemed so because of his indulgently protecting attitude, yet at times they seemed like happy children together.

This attitude was shown in his unconscious posture, an arm about the girl's slim body as she nestled against him. My only doubt was that he was too indulgent. She was a willful, reckless sort of a girl, not old enough to have any judgment, and she needed, at times, a strong hand to guide her.

"How do you manage this little spit-fire, Malcolm?" I asked bluntly.

He smiled and gently caressed her curls.

"Love will tame the wildest, Steve."

"I doubt if love alone will tame a woman," I answered. "Before she married she could be a little wildcat when she wanted to. The first thing you know you'll let her have her way so much that you'll spoil her."

"You talk as if I were a child," Joan pouted.

"You are. I warn you, Malcolm, her mother gave her her last spanking when she was seventeen."

A shadow touched Hallworthy's fine, sensitive features.

"That's never necessary. Punishing a child is simply brutal--that's all. A relic of the Stone Age that should have no place in the twentieth century. Nothing revolts me quite as much as someone coercing a weaker mortal by the ancient tyranny of flogging."

I laughed. Long roaming in the by-ways of the world had calloused me to many things. I could scarcely get Hallworthy's viewpoint on some subjects; Joan's either, for that matter. Though we were brother and sister, yet our lives, until recent years had been as different as the poles. She had been raised in luxury, but I had wandered forth into the world at the age of eight and some of the things I had seen and the ways I had travelled had not been of the nicest.

"Many things may not be right," I said. "But they are necessary."

"I deny that!" exclaimed Hallworthy. "Wrong is never necessary! The rightness of a thing makes it necessary, just as wrongness makes it unnecessary."

"Wait!" I raised a hand. "You think, then, if a thing is Right, it should be done, no matter if the consequences are bad."

"The consequences of Right are never bad."

"You are a hopeless idealist. According to your theory, all knowledge gained by research should be given to the people, since it is certainly Wrong to keep the race in ignorance?"

"Certainly. You seem to believe that the end makes things right or wrong. I believe that everything is fundamentally right or wrong and that nothing can make for good results but right."

"Wait. You forget that the great host of people cannot even assimilate such knowledge as has been gained through the past centuries. Suppose hypnotism were a proven fact; would it be right to give to all people the power of controlling others?"

"Yes, if it were a proven fact. It is wrong to suppress knowledge, therefore it is right to dispense knowledge and the results would be good."

That evening I visited Professor Falrath's apartments. I had gotten permission to do so, with the intention of going through his papers to see if any light could be thrown on the murder, or his past relations with Van Dorn.

Among them I found the following letter which he had evidently never finished; it was addressed to Professor Hjalmar Nordon, Brooklyn, New York, and the part which caught my attention follows:

"For the last few nights I have been the victim of a peculiar hallucination. After I turn out the light, I seem to sense the presence of something in my room. There is a suggestion of movement in the darkness and straining my eyes it sometimes seems as though I can almost see vague and intangible shadows which glide about through the darkness. Yet, I know that I cannot see these things, as one sees a physical object; I feel them, somehow, and the sensation is so realistic that they seem to register themselves on my sight and hearing. I cannot understand this. Can it be that I am losing my mind? As yet I have said nothing to anyone, but tonight when Van Dorn comes here, I shall tell him of this illusion and see if he can offer any logical explanation."

Here the letter ended abruptly. I re-read it, again conscious of that strange feeling of an unknown door opening somewhere and letting in the dank air of outer spaces.

This was monstrously strange. Michael Costigan and Hildred Falrath had been as far apart as the poles, yet here seemed a common thought between them. Costigan, too, had spoken of shadows lurking and gliding about his room, and the strange thing, each had spoken of FEELING the presence of the spectres. Each had impressed the fact that the Things were unseeable and unhearable, yet each spoke vaguely of SEEING and HEARING.

I took the letter to my rooms, and composed a letter to Professor Nordon, narrating the whole affair and telling him of the letter, explaining that I did not enclose for the reason that it might be of use in Van Dorn's trial to prove the friendship existing between him and the late professor.

This done, I went out into the warm star-light of the late summer night for a stroll, feeling fagged somehow, though I had done nothing to justify such a feeling. As I went along the poorly lighted and almost deserted street--for it was late--I was aware of the strange actions of an individual just in front of me. His progress seemed to be measured by the areas of street lights. He would hesitate beneath the glow of a light, then suddenly dart swiftly along the street until he came to another light, where he would halt as if loath to leave its radiance.

Feeling some interest, I hastened my step and soon overtook him, for in spite of his haste between the lamp posts, his lingering beneath them made his progress very slow. He was standing directly beneath one, staring this way and that, when I came up behind him and spoke to him. He whirled, hand clenched and raised and struck wildly at me. I blocked the blow easily and caught his arm, supposing he thought I was a foot-pad. However, the evident terror on his face seemed abnormal, somehow. His eyes bulged and his mouth gaped while his complexion was as near white as the human skin can become.

Yet before I could explain my honest intentions, he breathed a gusty sigh.

"Ah, you; pardon me, mister. I thought--I thought it--it was somethin' else."

"What's up?" I asked, bluntly curious.

He shuffled his feet and lowered his eyes, in a manner that reminded me strangely of Costigan's attitude.

"Nothin'," he said rather sullenly, then modified the statement. "That is--I dunno. I'll tell you somethin', though," his face took on an air of low cunning. "Stay in the light and you'll be alright. They won't come out of the dark, not Them!"

"They? Who are They?"

At this moment, just as his lips were opening to reply, the street light beneath which we stood gave a flicker as though about to go out, and with a scream, the man turned and fled up the street, his frantic heels drumming a receding tattoo on the sidewalk.

Completely dumfounded, I continued my stroll and returned to my apartments, wondering idly at the number of lights burning in so many houses at such a late hour.

Again at my apartments I settled myself for an hour or so of reading. Selecting a work expounding material monism, I made myself comfortable and upon opening the pages, was reminded, by contrast, of Malcolm Hallworthy and his extreme idealism. I smiled and reflected:

"Maybe Joan hasn't a husband who will control her as she needs to be, but at least she is married to a man who will never mistreat her."

At that very instant there sounded a scurry of feminine high heels outside, the door was hurled open and a girl staggered into the room and threw herself panting into my arms.

"Joan! What in God's name--"

"Steve!" It was the wail of a frightened and abused child. "Malcolm beat me!"

"Nonsense." If she had grown wings and flown before my eyes, I could not have been more dumfounded. "What are you talking about, child?"

"He did, he did!" she wailed, sobbing and clinging tightly to me. Her curls were disheveled, her clothing disarranged. "I went to sleep on the lounge and when I woke up, he had me bound there by my wrists and was flogging me with a riding whip! Look!" With a whimper she slipped the flimsy fabric from her back and I saw long, ugly red weals across her slim shoulders.

"You see?"

"Yes, but I don't understand. Why, he thought it was brutal to spank you."

The House

"And so you see," said my friend James Conrad, his pale, keen face alight, "why I am studying the strange case of Justin Geoffrey--seeking to find, either in his own life, or in his family line, the reason for his divergence from the family type. I am trying to discover just what made Justin the man he was."

"Have you met with success?" I asked. "I see you have procured not only his personal history but his family tree. Surely, with your deep knowledge of biology and psychology, you can explain this strange poet, Geoffrey."

Conrad shook his head, a baffled look in his scintillant eyes. "I admit I cannot understand it. To the average man, there would appear to be no mystery--Justin Geoffrey was simply a freak, half genius, half maniac. He would say that he 'just happened' in the same manner in which he would attempt to explain the crooked growth of a tree. But twisted minds are no more causeless than twisted trees. There is always a reason--and save for one seemingly trivial incident I can find no reason for Justin's life, as he lived it.

"He was a poet. Trace the lineage of any rhymer you wish, and you will find poets or musicians among his ancestors. But I have studied his family tree back for five hundred years and find neither poet nor singer, nor any thing that might suggest there had ever been one in the Geoffrey family. They are people of good blood, but of the most staid and prosaic type you could find. Originally an old English family of the country squire class, who became impoverished and came to America to rebuild their fortunes, they settled in New York in 1690 and though their descendants have scattered over the country, all--save Justin alone--have remained much of a type--sober, industrious merchants. Both of his parents are of this class, and likewise his brothers and sisters. His brother John is a successful banker in Cincinnati. Eustace is the junior partner of a law firm in New York, and William, the younger brother, is in his junior year in Harvard, already showing the ear-marks of a successful bond salesman. Of the three sisters of Justin, one is married to the dullest business man imaginable, one is a teacher in a grade school and the other graduates from Vassar this year. Not one of them shows the slightest sign of the characteristics which marked Justin. He was like a stranger, an alien among them. They are all known as kindly, honest people.

Granted; but I found them intolerably dull and apparently entirely without imagination. Yet Justin, a man of their own blood and flesh, dwelt in a world of his own making, a world so fantastic and utterly bizarre that it was quite outside and beyond my own gropings--and I have never been accused of a lack of imagination.

"Justin Geoffrey died raving in a madhouse, just as he himself had often predicted. This was enough to explain his mental wanderings to the average man; to me it is only the beginning of the question. What drove Justin Geoffrey mad? Insanity is either acquired or inherited. In his case it was certainly not inherited. I have proved that to my own satisfaction. As far back as the records go, no man, woman or child in the Geoffrey family has ever showed the slightest taint of a diseased mind. Justin, then, acquired his lunacy. But how? No disease made him what he was; he was unusually healthy, like all his family. His people said he had never been sick a day in his life. There were no abnormalities present at birth. Now comes the strange part. Up to the age of ten he was no whit different from his brothers. When he was ten, the change came over him.

"He began to be tortured by wild and fearful dreams which occurred almost nightly and which continued until the day of his death. As we know, instead of fading as most dreams of childhood do, these dreams increased in vividness and terror, until they shadowed his whole life. Toward the last, they merged so terribly with his waking thoughts that they seemed grisly realities and his dying shrieks and blasphemies shocked even the hardened keepers of the madhouse.

"Coincidental with these dreams came a drawing away from his companions and his own family. From a completely extrovert, gregarious little animal he became almost a recluse. He wandered by himself more than is good for a child and he preferred to do his roaming at night. Mrs. Geoffrey has told how time and again she would come into the room where he and his brother Eustace slept, after they had gone to bed, to find Eustace sleeping peacefully, but the open window telling her of Justin's departure. The lad would be out under the stars, pushing his way through the silent willows along some sleeping river, or wading through the dew-wet grass, or rousing the drowsy cattle in some quiet meadow by his passing.

"This is a stanza of a poem Justin wrote at the age of eleven." Conrad took up a volume published by a very exclusive house and read:

Behind the Veil, what gulfs of Time and Space?

What blinking, mowing things to blast the sight?

I shrink before a vague, colossal Face

Born in the mad immensities of Night.

"What!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me that a boy of eleven wrote those lines?"

"I most certainly do! His poetry at that age was crude and groping, but it showed even then sure promise of the mad genius that was later to blaze forth from his pen. In another family, he had certainly been encouraged and had blossomed forth as an infant prodigy. But his unspeakably prosaic family saw in his scribbling only a waste of time and an abnormality which they thought they must nip in the bud. Bah! Dam up the abhorrent black rivers that run blindly through the African jungles! But they did prevent him giving his unusual talents full swing for a space, and it was not until he was seventeen that his poems were first given to the world, by the aid of a friend who discovered him struggling and starving in Greenwich Village, whither he had fled from the stifling environments of his home.

"But the abnormalities which his family thought they saw in his poetry were not those which I see. To them, anyone who does not make his living by selling potatoes is abnormal. They sought to discipline his poetic leanings out of him, and his brother John bears a scar to this day, a memento of the day he sought in a big-brotherly way to chastise his younger brother for neglecting some work for his scribbling. Justin's temper was sudden and terrible; his whole disposition was as different from his stolid, good-natured people as a tiger differs from oxen. Nor does he favor them, save in a vague way about the features.

They are round-faced, stocky, inclined to portliness. He was thin almost to emaciation, with a narrow-bridged nose and a face like a hawk's. His eyes blazed with an inner passion and his tousled black hair fell over a brow strangely narrow. That forehead of his was one of his unpleasant features. I cannot say why, but I never glanced at that pale, high, narrow forehead that I did not unconsciously suppress a shudder!

"And as I said, all this change came after he was ten. I have seen a picture taken of him and his brothers when he was nine, and I had some difficulty in picking him out from them. He had the same stubby build, the same round, dull, good-natured face. One would think a changeling had been substituted for Justin Geoffrey at the age of ten!"

I shook my head in puzzlement and Conrad continued.

"All the children except Justin went through high school and entered college. Justin finished high school much against his will. He differed from his brothers and sisters in this as in all other things. They worked industriously in school but outside they seldom opened a book. Justin was a tireless searcher for knowledge, but it was knowledge of his own choosing. He despised and detested the courses of education given in school and repeatedly condemned the triviality and uselessness of such education.

"He refused point blank to go to college. At the time of his death at the age of twenty-one, he was curiously unbalanced. In many ways he was abysmally ignorant. For instance he knew nothing whatever of the higher mathematics and he swore that of all knowledge this was the most useless, for, far from being the one solid fact in the universe, he contended that mathematics were the most unstable and unsure. He knew nothing of sociology, economics, philosophy or science. He never kept himself posted on current events and he knew no more of modern history than he had learned in school. But he did know ancient history, and he had a great store of ancient magic, Kirowan.

"He was interested in ancient languages and was perversely stubborn in his use of obsolete words and archaic phrases. Now how, Kirowan, did this comparatively uncultured youth, with no background of literary heredity behind him, manage to create such horrific images as he did?"

"Why," said I, "poets feel--they write from instinct rather than knowledge. A great poet may be a very ignorant man in other ways, and have no real concrete knowledge on his own poetic subjects. Poetry is a weave of shadows--impressions cast on the consciousness which cannot be described otherwise."

"Exactly!" Conrad snapped. "And whence came these impressions to Justin Geoffrey? Well, to continue, the change in Justin began when he was ten years old. His dreams seem to date from a night he spent near an old deserted farm house. His family were visiting some friends who lived in a small village in New York State--up close to the foot of the Catskills. Justin, I gather, went fishing with some other boys, strayed away from them, got lost and was found by the searchers next morning slumbering peacefully in the grove which surrounds the house. With the characteristic stolidity of the Geoffreys, he had been unshaken by an experience which would have driven many a small boy into hysteria. He merely said that he had wandered over the countryside until he came to this house and being unable to get in, had slept among the trees, it being late in the summer. Nothing had frightened him, but he said that he had had strange and extraordinary dreams which he could not describe but which had seemed strangely vivid at the time. This alone was unusual--the Geoffreys were no more troubled with nightmares than a hog is.

"But Justin continued to dream wildly and strangely and as I said, to change in thoughts, ideas and demeanor. Evidently, then, it was that incident which made him what he was. I wrote to the mayor of the village asking him if there was any legend connected with the house but his reply, while arousing my interest, told me nothing. He merely said that the house had been there ever since anyone could remember, but had been unoccupied for at least fifty years. He said the ownership was in some dispute, and he added that, strange to say, the place had always been known merely as The House by the people of Old Dutchtown. He said that so far as he knew, no unsavory tales were connected with it, and he sent me a Kodak snapshot of it."

Here Conrad produced a small print and held it up for me to see. I sprang up, almost startled.

"That? Why, Conrad, I've seen that same landscape before--those tall sombre oaks, with the castle-like house half concealed among them--I've got it! It's a painting by Humphrey Skuyler, hanging in the art gallery of the Harlequin Club."

"Indeed!" Conrad's eyes lighted up. "Why, both of us know Skuyler well. Let's go up to his studio and ask him what he knows about The House, if anything."

We found the artist hard at work as usual, on a bizarre subject. As he was fortunate in being of a very wealthy family, he was able to paint for his own enjoyment--and his tastes ran to the weird and outre. He was not a man who affected unusual dress and manners, but he looked the temperamental artist. He was about my height, some five feet and ten inches, but he was slim as a girl with long white nervous fingers, a knife-edge face and a shock of unruly hair tumbling over a high pale forehead.

"The House, yes, yes," he said in his quick, jerky manner, "I painted it. I was looking on a map one day and the name Old Dutchtown intrigued me. I went up there hoping for some subjects, but I found nothing in the town. I did find that old house several miles out."

"I wondered, when I saw the painting," I said, "why you merely painted a deserted house without the usual accompaniment of ghastly faces peering out of the upstairs windows or misshapen shapes roosting on the gables."

"No?" he snapped. "And didn't anything about the mere picture impress you?"

"Yes, it did," I admitted. "It made me shudder."

"Exactly!" he cried. "To have elaborated the painting with figures from my own paltry brain would have spoiled the effect. The effect of horror is most gained when the sensation is most intangible. To put the horror into a visible shape, no matter how gibbous or mistily, is to lessen the effect. I paint an ordinary tumble-down farmhouse with the hint of a ghastly face at a window; but this house--this House--needs no such mummery or charlatanry. It fairly exudes an aura of abnormality--that is, to a man sensitive to such impressions."

Conrad nodded. "I received that impression from the snapshot. The trees obscure much of the building but the architecture seems very unfamiliar to me."

"I should say so. I'm not altogether unversed in the history of architecture and I was unable to classify it.

The natives say it was built by the Dutch who first settled that part of the country but the style is no more Dutch than it's Greek. There's something almost Oriental about the thing, and yet it's not that either. At any rate, it's old--that cannot be denied."

"Did you go in The House?"

"I did not. The doors and windows were locked and I had no desire to commit burglary. It hasn't been long since I was prosecuted by a crabbed old farmer in Vermont for forcing my way into an old deserted house of his in order to paint the interior."

"Will you go with me to Old Dutchtown?" asked Conrad suddenly.

Skuyler smiled. "I see your interest is aroused--yes, if you think you can get us into The House without having us dragged up in court afterwards. I have an eccentric reputation enough as it is; a few more suits like the one I mentioned and I'll be looked on as a complete lunatic. And what about you, Kirowan?"

"Of course I'll go," I answered.

"I was sure of that," said Conrad. "I don't even bother to ask him to accompany me on my weird explorations any more--I know he's eager as I."

And so we came to Old Dutchtown on a warm late summer morning.

"Drowsy and dull with age the houses blink,

On aimless streets that youthfulness forget--

But what time-grisly figures glide and slink

Down the old alleys when the moon has set?"

Thus Conrad quoted the phantasies of Justin Geoffrey as we looked down on the slumbering village of Old Dutchtown from the hill over which the road passed before descending into the crooked dusty streets.

"Do you suppose he had this town in mind when he wrote that?"

"It fits the description, doesn't it--'High gables of an earlier, ruder age'--look--there are your Dutch houses and old Colonial buildings--I can see why you were attracted by this town, Skuyler, it breathes a very musk of antiquity. Some of those houses are three hundred years old. And what an atmosphere of decadence hovers over the whole town."

We were met by the mayor of the place, a man whose up-to-the-minute clothes and manners contrasted strangely with the sleepiness of the town and the slow, easy-going ways of most of the natives. He remembered Skuyler's visit there--indeed, the coming of any stranger into this little backwash town was an event to be remembered by the inhabitants. It seemed strange to think that within a hundred or so miles there roared and throbbed the greatest metropolis of the world.

Conrad could not wait a moment, so the mayor accompanied us to The House. The first glance of it sent a shudder of repulsion through me. It stood in the midst of a sort of upland, between two fertile farms, the stone fences of which ran to within a hundred or so yards on either side. A ring of tall, gnarled oaks entirely surrounded the house, which glimmered through their branches like a bare and time-battered skull.

"Who owns this land?" the artist asked.

"Why, the title is in some dispute," answered the mayor. "Jediah Alders owns that farm there, and Squire Abner owns the other. Abner claims The House is part of the Alders farm, and Jediah is just as loud in his assertions that the Squire's grandfather bought it from the Dutch family who first owned it."

"That sounds backwards," commented Conrad. "Each one denies ownership."

"That's not so strange," said Skuyler. "Would you want a place like that to be part of your estate?"

"No," said Conrad after a moment's silent contemplation, "I would not."

"Between ourselves," broke in the mayor, "neither of the farmers want to pay the taxes on the property as the land about it is absolutely useless. The barrenness of the soil extends for some little distance in all directions and the seed planted close to those stone fences on both farms yields little. These oak trees seem to sap the very life of the soil."

"Why have the trees not been cut down?" asked Conrad. "I have never encountered any sentiment among the farmers of this state."

"Why, as the ownership has been in dispute for the past fifty years, no one has liked to take it on himself.

And then the trees are so old and of such sturdy growth it would entail a great deal of labor. And there is a foolish superstition attached to that grove--a long time ago a man was badly cut by his own axe, trying to chop down one of the trees--an accident that might occur anywhere--and the villagers attached over-much importance to the incident."

"Well," said Conrad, "if the land about The House is useless, why not rent the building itself, or sell it?"

For the first time the mayor looked embarrassed.

"Why, none of the villagers would rent or buy it, as no good land goes with it, and to tell you the truth, it has been found impossible to enter The House!"

"Impossible?"

"Well," he amended, "the doors and windows are heavily barred and bolted, and either the keys are in possession of someone who does not care to divulge the secret, or else they have been lost. I have thought that possibly someone was using The House for a bootleg den and had a reason for keeping the curious out but no light has ever been seen there, and no one is ever seen slinking about the place."

We had passed through the circling ring of sullen oaks and stood before the building.

Untitled Fragment

Beneath the glare of the sun, etched in the hot blue sky, native laborers sweated and toiled. The scene was a cameo of desolation--blue sky, amber sand stretching to the skyline in all directions, barely relieved by a fringe of palm trees that marked an oasis in the near distance. The men were like brown ants in that empty sun-washed immensity, pecking away at a queer grey dome half hidden in the sands. Their employers aided with directions and ready hands.

Allison was square-built and black bearded; Brill was tall, wiry, with a ginger-hued moustache and cold blue eyes. Both had the hard bronzed look of men who had spent most of their lives in the outlands.

Allison knocked out the ashes from his pipe on his boot heel.

"Well, how about it?"

"You mean that fool bet?" Brill looked at him in surprise. "Do you mean it?"

"I do. I'll lay you my best six-shooter against your saddle that we don't find an Egyptian in this tomb."

"What do you expect to find?" asked Brill quizzically, "a local shaykh? Or maybe a Hyksos king? I'll admit it's different from anything of the sort I've ever seen before, but we know from its appearance of age that it antedates Turkish or Semitic control of Egypt--it's bound to go back further than the Hyksos, even. And before them, who was in Egypt?"

"I reckon we'll know after we've looted this tomb," answered Allison, with a certain grimness in his manner.

Brill laughed. "You mean to tell me you think there was a race here before the Egyptians, civilized enough to build such a tomb as this? I suppose you think they built the pyramids!"

"They did," was the imperturbable reply.

Brill laughed. "Now you're trying to pull my leg."

Allison looked at him curiously. "Did you ever read the 'Unausprechlichen Kulten'?"

"What the devil's that?"

"A book called 'Nameless Cults,' by a crazy German named Von Junzt--at least they said he was crazy.

Among other things he wrote of an age which he swore he had discovered--a sort of historical blind spot.

He called it the Hyborian Age. We have guessed what came before, and we know what came after, but that age itself has been a blank space--no legends, no chronicles, just a few scattered names that came to be applied in other senses.

"It's our lack of knowledge about this age that upsets our calculations and makes us put down Atlantis as a myth. This is what Von Junzt says: That when Atlantis, Lemuria and other nations of that age were destroyed by a violent cataclysm--except for scattered remnants here and there--the continent now known as Africa was untouched, though connected with the other continent. A tribe of savages fled to the arctic circle to escape the volcanoes, and eventually evolved into a race known as Hyborians. These reached a high stage of civilization and dominated the western part of the world, all except this particular part. A pre-Cataclysmic race lived here, known as Stygians. It was from them that the Grecian legend of Stygia arose; the Nile was the Styx of the fables. The Hyborians were never able to invade Stygia, and last they themselves were destroyed by waves of barbarians from the north--our own ancestors. In Stygia the ruling classes were pure-blooded, but the lower classes were mixed--Stygian, Semitic and Hyborian blood.

"In the southward drift of the barbarians, a tribe of red-haired Nordics fought their way south and overthrew the ancient Stygian regime. They destroyed or drove out the pure-blooded Stygians, and set themselves up as a ruling caste, eventually being absorbed by their subjects; from these adventurers and the mixed up mongrel lower classes came the Egyptians. It was the Stygians who built the pyramids and the Sphinx. And if I'm not mistaken, one of them lies in this pile of masonry."

Brill laughed incredulously.

Appendix

NOTES ON THE ORIGINAL HOWARD TEXTS

The texts for this edition of The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard were prepared by Rusty Burke and Rob Roehm, with the assistance of Paul Herman. The stories have been checked either against Howard's original manuscripts and typescripts, copies of which were provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation and Glenn Lord; Lord's transcriptions of Howard's originals; or the first published appearance if a manuscript, typescript, or transcription was unavailable. Every effort has been made to present the work of Robert E. Howard as faithfully as possible.

Deviations from the original sources are detailed in these textual notes. In the following notes, page, line, and word numbers are given as follows: 11.20.2, indicating page 11, twentieth line, second word. Story titles, chapter numbers and titles, and breaks before and after chapter headings, titles, and illustrations are not counted; in poems, only text lines are counted. The page/line number will be followed by the reading in the original source, or a statement indicating the type of change made.

We have standardized chapter numbering and titling: Howard's own practices varied, as did those of the publications in which these stories appeared. We have not noted those changes here.

In the Forest of Villefere

Text taken from Weird Tales, August 1925. No changes have been made for this edition.

A Song of the Werewolf Folk

Text taken from Glenn Lord's transcription of Howard's original typescript. No changes have been made for this edition.

Wolfshead

Text taken from Weird Tales, April 1926. 6.1.2: your; 7.15.8: semicolon after "age" 9.33.4: comma after "myself" 12.35.4: single quote after "von Schiller?" 14.29.6-14: no quotation marks; 15.40.16: no comma after "floor" 22.28.7-8: "as" not in original, "if" repeated Up, John Kane!

Text taken from Glenn Lord's transcription of Howard's original typescript. No changes have been made for this edition.

Remembrance

Text taken from Weird Tales, April 1928. No changes have been made for this edition.

The Dream Snake

Text taken from Weird Tales, February 1928. 32.14.8: the Sea Curse

Text taken from Weird Tales, May 1928. 39.40.14: "of" not in original The Moor Ghost

Text taken from Weird Tales, September 1929. No changes have been made for this edition.

Moon Mockery

Text taken from Weird Tales, April 1929. No changes have been made for this edition.

The Little People

Text taken from a copy of Howard's original typescript, provided by Glenn Lord. The story was originally untitled. The typescript is unusual in having holographic additions and corrections, in addition to Howard's more frequent practice of typing such insertions. Because Howard's handwriting can be exceptionally difficult, some of the readings are conjectural, as is the placement of some inserted material.

At least one page is missing from the typescript. [A facsimile of the original typescript is included in Bran Mak Morn: The Last King (Del Rey, 2005).] 43.3.3: she,; 43.8.6: This; 43.9.6: answered,; 43.10.6-9:

"as an exponent" is hand-written above the original "to expound", "of" not in manuscript; 43.12.3: fetched.; 43.12.8: "finallity" hand-written above original "positiveness" 43.12.10: seventeen,; 43.15.7: fact.; 43.15.9: said,; 43.16.11: exclaimed,; 43.18.9: nettled,; 43.19.7: were; 43.21.2: "brotherly"

hand-written above "frown" 44.5.3-8: "A race of small, dark people." hand-written above "Traces of their type may be" with no indication of intended insertion point; 44.5.9: Traces; 44.7.7: "Lapps"

hand-written next to typed "Laps" 44.11.10: "by" not in manuscript; 44.21.6: ago.; 44.21.11: interest,; 44.23.7: havent; 44.25.3: original had "dolmens", crossed out in pencil, "menhirs" written above; 44.27.1: Maybe.; 44.27.11: "villager" hand-written above original "fellow" 44.28.1-2: "the warning"

handwritten in margin after "said", no dash; 44.28.14: Youre; 44.29.1: no comma after "sophisticated"

44.29.8: wouldnt; 44.31.11-12: "and combat" hand-written after "interest." 44.32.5: exclaimed,; 44.33.7: didnt; 44.36.3: wont; 44.36.4: either.; 44.36.6: vetoed,; 44.37.12-14: original had "true", crossed out in pencil, "up to date" hand-written above; 44.38.2-3: original had "New Age", crossed out in pencil, "Younger Generation" hand-written above; 44.39.2: havent; 44.39.10: night.; 44.39.12: answered,; 45.1.4: wouldnt; 45.2.5: you.; 45.2.6-9: "to be out unprotected."" handwritten following

"you."" 45.4.1: No quotation mark before "I" 45.4.3: youre; 45.4.5: foolish.; 45.5.14: no comma after

"I" 45.9.7: framing,; 45.14.1: wouldnt; 45.17.7: willfull; 45.19.2: cant; 45.19.5: around.; 45.19.7: flamed,; 45.19.12: original had "restrain", "bully" hand-written above; 45.21.3: necessary.; 45.21.5: sighed,; 45.25.3: didnt; 45.25.8: anyhow.; 45.28.1: original had "bully", crossed out and "cajole"

hand-written above; 45.31.1: no period after "corridor" 45.34.8: gristly; 45.35.6-10: "and the air was warm" is typed in above "yet the whole landscape" without indication of the intended insertion point; 45.36.1: LOOKED; 45.36.6-11: original had "Across the I rise," "fen" and "saw" are hand-written above; 45.37.9: original had "ruined Cromlech", "ed" of "ruined" crossed out, "s" inserted after "ruin", and "Cromlech" crossed out; 46.2.3-6: original had "She disliked compulsory obeidience extremely.",

"Compulsory obeidence was repugnant" hand-written above; 46.4.12: "I" hand-written above "lay"

46.5.2-3: "brooding and" typed in above "staring at the" with no indication of intended insertion point; 46.9.8: original had "lurking", crossed out and "impending" hand-written above; 46.10.9: conciousness; 46.11.12: "through" is typed above "into the window" 46.13.7: arrouse; 46.15.3-4: originally "strange thoughts", "strange" is crossed out in pencil, "partly formed" typed above "thoughts", then "formed" is crossed out and a word that may be "remembered" is written above, but the reading is conjectural; 46.15.11: awke; 46.25.7: original had "cromlech", crossed out and "ruins" hand-written above; 46.25.13: no comma after "moon" 46.26.5: comma rather than dash after "length" 46.28.10: original had

"in", "within" hand-written above; 46.29.11: original had "hastened", "quickened" typed above; 46.31.9: eveil; 46.32.1: no comma after "Then" 46.33.4-8: original had "limned the scene clearly", crossed out and "flung a veil of illusion" hand-written above; 46.39.6: SAW; 46.40.17-41.1: original read "I saw that on three sides she was surrounded--they...", "on" through "surrounded" is crossed out in pencil; 46.41.8: After "me.", the following sentence originally began "Only on the side next the ruins was the way clear and suddenly", everything through "and" is crossed out; 46.41.10-12: "instinctively" is hand-written above "she", extending into right margin, "I believe" is hand-written below it in margin, no indication of intended insertion point; 47.3.16: no comma after "youth" 47.7.1-10: "I did not fear I only wished to close with them" hand-written above "I recognized these--I knew them of old and all", no indication of intended insertion point; 47.9.5-11.7: "Hate leaped in me as in the old days" is hand-written after "soul.", appears to continue on next line with "when when men of my blood came from the North" (the "N" in

"North" may or may not be capitalized), slopes up slightly, followed by "Ay though the whole spawn of Hell rise up from those caverns which honey comb the moors", but the insertion and some of the readings are conjectural; 47.14.9: features.; 47.14.10-15.11: "the shimmer of flint daggers in their crooked hands"

is typed above "square faces with their unhuman features. Then with a", no indication of intended insertion point; 47.16.3: them,; 47.17.8: They; 47.19.6-20.4: "a flint dagger sank hilt deep in my thigh" is typed above "darkened the moon-silvered stones. Then the ghastly", no indication of intended insertion point; 47.21.4: semicolon rather than comma after "mine" 47.23.1: original had "Mindless", crossed out and "Heedless" handwritten above; 47.23.12: "anew" hand-written above semicolon; 47.25.2: "blindly"

is handwritten above "seeking", no indication of intended insertion point; 47.25.4-26.12: "there the protection some vague instinct in obedience to some dim instinct just as women of her blood had done in by gone ages" is hand-written after "seeking" in the bottom margin of the page, "the" and "some vague instinct" are crossed out in pencil, some of the readings are conjectural; 47.26.12: at top of new page,

"there the protection, following some instinct." appears to continue sentence from "seeking" at bottom of previous page, before handwritten material was inserted; 47.29.9: dreams; 47.34.8: They; 47.35.10: original had "eonic", "ancient" hand-written above, obscured, reading conjectural; 47.41.2: semicolon rather than dash after "explain" 48.2.3-4.12: "Aye, such a shriek as could echo down the dusty corridors of lost ages and bring" hand-written above the line beginning "but I think that...", "back from the whispering abyss of Eternity the ghost of the only one who could save" hand-written above the line beginning "Time to the Beings...", "a girl of Celtic blood" hand-written above line beginning with new paragraph, "The foremost..." 48.6.12: original had "appeared", crossed out, "stood" typed above; 48.7.4: original had "appearing", "materializing" hand-written above; 48.9.9-10.7: "A druid, answering once more the desperate need of people" hand-written above "His brow was high and noble, his eyes mystic and", "of his race" hand-written above beginning of next line, "far-seeing", no indication of intended insertion point; 48.13.6: no comma after "suddenly" 48.15.1-16.5: "sword and shield against the" hand-written above "who raised his hand above", "powers of darkness, protecting helpless tribes as in the world's youth" hand-written above the line beginning "us as if in benediction...", no indication of intended insertion point, some readings conjectural

Dead Man's Hate

Text taken from Weird Tales, January 1930. No changes have been made for this edition.

The Tavern

Text taken from Singers in the Shadows (Donald M. Grant, 1970). No changes have been made for this edition.

Rattle of Bones

Text taken from Weird Tales, June 1929. 54.8.10: "the" not in original.

The Fear That Follows

Text taken from Singers in the Shadows (Donald M. Grant, 1970). No changes have been made for this edition.

The Spirit of Tom Molyneaux

Text taken from a scan of Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E.

Howard Foundation. 58.1.8: "the" not in typescript; 58.1.9: no comma after "living" 58.6: no section break; 59.3.9: good natured; 59.21.9: no comma after "indeed" 59.26.2-3: art, which considering; 59.28.14: no period after "cost" 59.32.9: horrizon; 59.36.10: full blooded; 60.3.4: "him" not in typescript; 60.8.2: no comma after "Jessel" 60.8.9: challengers,; 60.9.12: no comma after "York"

60.12.8: large,; 60.22.5: good natured; 60.24.5: unlying; 60.33.3: aluring; 60.38.9: caint; 60.38.14: aint; 60.40.6: mine; 61.5.8: aint; 61.11.7: tableaux; 61.13.14: by gone; 61.20.3: age old; 61.22.7: Eternity,; 61.22.10: no comma after "flown" 61.24.5: obesience; 61.26.4: rediculous; 61.35.4: clean limbed; 62.4.8: no comma after "Ace" 62.4.11: no comma after "corner" 62.5.1: no comma after "crowd"

62.7.7: Gomez,--62.12.14: no comma after "gorilla" 62.16.10: no comma after "Ace" 62.21.2: no comma after "wolf" 62.24.6: no comma after "back" 62.28.3: Gomez" 62.37.11-12: to the his; 62.38.8: vitallity; 63.4.1: straighted; 63.5.14: of; 63.7.2: Gomez" 63.19.7: Gomez" 63.21.13: no comma after

"and" 63.25.13: no comma after "before" 63.28.11: right hand; 63.30.5: left handers; 63.33.2: cant; 63.34.5: no comma after "try" 63.39.9: no comma after "Then" 64.7.2: no comma after "in" 64.24.2: my; 64.28.2: blood shot; 64.29.5: dont; 64.30.6: caint; 64.31.12: vitallity; 64.34.1: no paragraph break; 64.38.7: from,; 64.39.10: "Ace" repeated; 64.40.7: no comma after "cautiously" 67.1.17: comma rather than period after "canvas" 67.2.1: he; 67.2.5: no comma after "winning" 67.7.3: foe; 67.7.9-10: could only could not; 67.7.11: evert; 67.8.13: back pedalling; 67.12.13: no comma after "chin" 67.17.6: no comma after "corner" 67.25.15: aint; 67.28.1: no comma after "ring" 67.36.3: no comma after "left"

67.37.10: back pedalled; 68.2.13: "ribs" not in typescript; 68.18.7: unconciousness; 68.28.12: no comma after "eyes" 68.32.9: punishment,; 68.37.1: wind blown; 68.40.3: blood shot; 69.3.16-4.8: "the picture" through "violently" is in all capital letters; 69.4.8: period rather than exclamation point after

"violently" 69.7.9: wide eyed; 69.12.2: immobile faced; 69.12.5-13.2: "and to" through "that ring!" is in all capital letters; 69.14.5: no comma after "short" 69.14.9: barrel chested; 69.14.12: mighty limbed; 69.20.11: was; 69.23.2: come back; 69.31.5: Gomez" 69.31.8: back; 69.33.3: a; 69.33.5: tableaux; 69.35.10: no comma after "short" 69.36.14: no comma after "and" 69.38.4: comma rather than period after "shuddered" 70.2.5: vitallity; 70.6.10: conciousness; 70.10.12: life like; 70.17.10: steely nerved; 70.17.12: cold eyed; 70.22.2: period rather than comma after "did" 70.22.4: comma rather than period after "answered'

Casonetto's Last Song

Text taken from Etchings and Odysseys #1, 1973. 71.14.5: bosom,; 73.14.4: comma rather than period after "Costigan'

The Touch of Death

Text taken from Weird Tales, February 1930. The only change made for this edition is the title. Weird Tales published the story under the title "The Fearsome Touch of Death." In two separate lists of his stories typed by Howard, one made before the story appeared in print and the other after, the title was given as "The Touch of Death."

Out of the Deep

Text taken from a scan of a carbon copy of Howard's original typescript, provided by the Robert E.

Howard Foundation. 80.13.5-7: the passage is smudged from erasure and typeover, the reading is probable; 80.15.1: no comma after "Strange" 80.15.8: "the" not in typescript; 80.16.2: ex-sea-man; 80.16.6: Town; 80.16.9: no comma after "deep" 80.17.10-12 and 15: the passage is smudged from erasure and typeover, the reading is probable; 80.20.9: period rather than comma after "him" 80.21.2: For; 80.21.3: t'is; 81.5.4: period rather than comma after "turned" 81.5.6: no comma after "whispered"

81.5.12: "corpse" not in typescript ('lifted the" ends first page and "and bore" begins second page); 81.9.14: no comma after "trance" 81.22.9: comma rather than period after "Leary" 81.23.11: no comma after "Now" 81.25.5: no comma after "this" 81.25.13: no comma after "him" 81.26.6: back; 81.36.12: no comma after "sleep" 81.37.12: no comma after "and" 81.38.3: no comma after "sand" 81.40.6: cold eyed; 82.13.1: "slend" ends one line of typescript and "-der" begins next line; 82.15.9: no comma after

"leaped" 82.17.5: comma rather than period after "Leary" 82.20.5: comma rather than period after

"shrieked" 82.20.11: t'was; 82.21.11: T'is; 82.22.12: no comma after "sleep" 82.25.11: no comma after

"were" 82.27.10: comma rather than period after "him" 82.32.3: comma rather than dash after "then"

82.38.5: period rather than comma after "night" 82.40.2: period rather than comma after "lies" 82.40.8: comma rather than period after "beards" 83.6.4: no comma after "white" 83.11.8: period rather than comma after "us" 83.11.10: comma rather than period after "he" 83.20.4: lead; 83.22.5: no comma after

"Hansen" 83.27.4: "the" not in typescript; 83.29.7: period rather than comma after "stocks" 83.29.9: no comma after "they" 83.33.3: no comma after "breast" 83.33.13: no comma after "and" 83.37.10: no comma after "and" 83.39.11: flaming eyed; 84.22.12-13: comma after "and" rather than "when"

84.26.1: no comma after "life" 84.34.4: period rather than colon after "know" 84.37.16: no comma after

"not" 87.5.6: no comma after "will" 87.17.1: no comma after "spine" 87.18.10: no comma after "make"

87.20.12: no comma after "then" 87.22.8: no comma after "still'

A Legend of Faring Town

Text taken from Verses in Ebony (George T Hamilton and Dale Brown, 1975). No changes have been made for this edition.

Restless Waters

Text taken from Witchcraft & Sorcery, No. 10, 1974. There is some evidence that the original title of this story may have been "The Horror at the Window." 89.3.3: period rather than comma; 91.19.9: period rather than comma; 91.28.7: dammed; 93.2.7: Hanson; 93.29.3: period rather than comma The Shadow of the Beast

Text taken from Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation. 95.7.16: comma after "shot" 95.8.12: pale faced; 95.9.3: horror struck; 95.9.4: comma after "struck" 95.10.4: grim faced; 95.12.4: comma after "hunted" 95.13.7: period rather than comma; 96.1.7: period rather than comma; 96.1.11: havent; 96.3.2: isnt; 96.3.5: period rather than comma; 96.3.8: comma rather than period; 96.5.4: no comma after "window" 96.7.12-14: text obscured by overtyping but reading seems probable; 96.13.1: no opening quotation mark; 96.14.1: period rather than comma; 96.17.5: period rather than comma; 96.17.8: no comma after "harshly" 96.17.9: comma after

"rising" 96.19.2: Dont; 96.24.3: aint; 96.24.7: period rather than comma; 96.25.8: no comma after

"camp" 96.26.5: Dont; 96.33.7: aint; 96.36.9: see; 96.38.2: aint; 96.38.3: nowhere's; 96.40.1: Aint; 97.1.15: foun; 97.3.10: comma after "night" 97.5.5: didnt; 97.7.11: drawn out; 97.8.1: what-ever; 97.8.11: locallity; 97.8.14: south; 97.15.1: Dont; 97.15.7: comma rather than period; 97.28.4: animal like; 97.40.1: comma after "then" 98.6.10: sure footed; 98.13.8-10: hand to hand; 98.18.10: moons; 98.19.6: some where; 98.31.4: comma after "mansion" 98.40.14: comma after "suddenly," "and" not in original; 99.20.11: comma after "decades" 99.21.3: bat's; 99.23.1: stair ways; 99.25.10: has; 99.36.1: winced; 99.40.2: pow; 100.16.5: no comma after "halted" 100.26.7: comma after "was" 100.29.1: no comma after "nothing" 100.29.5: soul freezing; 101.7.10: "some" repeated; 101.23.7: proceded; 101.24.3-8: "on an" ends first line of page; beginning of next line is overtyped; it appears, based on clarity of letters and spacing in relation to the continuation of the line, that "a discharged shell and I hurled" was typed over "empty chamber and I hurled" 101.26.2: back flung; 102.8.2: no comma after

"corridor" 102.11.5: concious; 102.16.6: conciousness; 102.17.12: no comma after "closed" 102.22.4: no comma after "insane" 102.23.10: no comma after "tears" 102.27.15: no comma after "time"

102.28.13: horrizon; 102.30.10: couldnt; 102.32.3: no comma after "posse" 102.32.14: wasnt; 102.34.6: forelorn; 102.36.8: What; 102.37.8: unconcious; 102.40.3: comma rather than period; 103.3.4: dont; 103.3.13: comma after "war" 103.8.1: "him" not in original; 103.11.7: comma rather than period; 103.14.5: comma rather than period; 103.15.1: Dont; 103.15.3: period rather than comma; 103.15.10: Dont; 103.16.5: didnt; 103.18.2: earth bound; 103.21.10: no comma after "then" 103.23.11: no comma after "mounted" 103.27.2: But; 103.30.1: no comma after "looked'

The Dead Slaver's Tale

Text taken from Weirdbook Eight, 1973. 104.1.7: no comma after "sea'

Dermod's Bane

Text taken from Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation. 105.5.7: no comma after "Tribes" 105.18.4: ancestor; 106.9.9: an ellipsis(...) follows the closing quotation mark, with no paragraph break before "I went to Galway." 106.11.11: familes; 106.13.1: familes; 106.13.6: familes; 106.24.14: devided; 106.27.1: MacMurraughs; 106.29.4: no comma after "Pembroke" 107.1.14: no comma after "last" 107.2.1: comma after "band" 107.4.10: farmer's; 107.5.1: shepherd's; 107.5.12: "a" not in original; 107.14.2: country side; 107.19.10: The; 107.24.2: no comma after "so" 107.26.9: you; 107.29.7: Demod's; 107.31.4: no comma after "know"

108.2.7: "soul" not in original; 108.3.17: eye lids; 108.19.1: silkly; 108.19.6: moonmist; 108.21.9: mist like; 108.26.5: my; 108.26.12: comma rather than semi-colon; 108.28.2: wither; 108.31.1: no comma after "vision" 108.31.9: tusk like; 108.33.1: pent house; 108.35.7: comma rather than period; 108.36.1: no closing quotation mark (the dash is at the extreme right edge of the paper); 108.39.2: irresistably; 108.40.6: keen edged; 109.6.13: soul easing; 109.9.9: no comma after "Did" 109.9.16: long dead; 109.10.3: "me" not in original

The Hills of the Dead

Text taken from Weird Tales, August 1930. 121.25.2: he; 124.12.8: easy; 130.10.5: blood brother Dig Me No Grave

Text taken from Weird Tales, February 1937. 136.24.5: oriental; 139.7.6: oriental; 139.36.9: Phenician; 139.39.9: oriental; 140.15.7: oriental; 140.27.6: oriental; 141.20.8: oriental The Song of a Mad Minstrel

Text taken from Weird Tales, February--March 1931. No changes have been made for this edition.

The Children of the Night

Text taken from Weird Tales, April--May 1931. 148.1: a line of asterisks marks the section break; 148.8.2: "deer-skin" hyphenated at line break; 153.38: a line of asterisks marks the section break; 156.32.2: medićval

Musings

Text taken from Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation. 158.1.7: semicolon rather than colon; 158.7.3: no comma after "that" 158.9.7: colon rather than semicolon

The Black Stone

Text taken from Weird Tales, November 1931. 160.26.3-4: "Midsummer's Night" not capitalized here, though it is capitalized elsewhere in the story; 161.13.6: gleam ('glean" in Howard's earlier draft of the story); 162.4.16: no comma after "and" 162.15.8: black-eddy ('back-eddy" in Howard's earlier draft); 162.23.7: Goeffrey; 162.26.2: mine; 163.41.7: aboriginies; 170.1.5: rythmically; 170.37.3: ecstacy The Thing on the Roof

Text taken from Weird Tales, February 1932. 179.7.14: the period is placed outside the quotation mark The Dweller in Dark Valley

Text taken from Magazine of Horror, November 1965

The Horror from the Mound

Text taken from Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation. 185.8.9: "farm-land" hyphenated at line break; 186.7.9: comma after "creek" 186.21.10: thes; 186.34.5: hemself; 187.14.1: "Senor" not underlined to indicate italics; 187.16.9: every; 187.17.8-9: hear-tell; 188.9.8: "Senor" not underlined to indicate italics; 188.35.10: grunned; 188.38.7: no comma after "decided" 189.11.9: cam; 189.17.4: befool; 189.18.10: refained; 189.38.7-8: treasure-trove; 190.4.4: no comma after "halted" 190.5.4: undeiable; 190.13.8: no comma after "stone"

190.30.11: "the" not in original; 191.2.9: tp; 191.8.10: forebidden; 191.34.12: Greaser; 191.35.6: trued; 192.1.9: cruse; 192.3.15: Spigs; 192.29.11: any one; 193.20.4: thre; 194.5.4: jjust; 195.1.7: Some one; 195.11.7: any one; 195.16.14: glassy eyed; 195.17.8: no comma after "creek" 196.41.14: long dead; 197.10.2: "Senor" not underlined to indicate italics; 197.22.4: light; 198.21.13: fear crazed A Dull Sound as of Knocking

Text taken from Glenn Lord's transcription of Howard's original. No changes have been made for this edition.

People of the Dark

Text taken from Strange Tales, June 1932. 203.10.9: comma after "hills" 203.35.1: loin cloth; 203.41.4: no comma after "reavers" 206.6.4: no comma after "where" 206.14.5: serpent like; 206.34.12: in it; 212.24.6: a wash; 214.5.6--7: little people

Delenda Est

Text taken from Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation. The typescript is untitled; the title is Glenn Lord's. 217.13.7: aborbed; 217.19.9: semicolon rather than comma; 218.14.1: semicolon rather than comma; 218.17.2: semicolon rather than comma; 218.26.9: horrizons; 218.34.3: no comma after "rival" 218.35.7: semicolon rather than comma; 219.3.3: with; 219.4.10: "westward" is typed above "before" with no indication of the intended insertion point; 219.8.6: "of" is typed above the space between "much" and "physical" with no indication of the intended insertion point; 219.9.3: vigour; 220.24.6: "not" not in original; 220.33.1: semicolon rather than comma; 221.40.2: rhyhmic; 222.34.6: no comma after "hand'

The Cairn on the Headland

Text taken from Strange Tales, January 1933. In a letter to H. P. Lovecraft, ca. December 1932

(probably very shortly after the magazine had appeared), Howard wrote: "The editor took liberties with

'The Cairn on the Headland.' In the original version, O'Brien was born in America. The editor changed this and made O'Brien a native of Ireland, but neglected to change the line: 'We were countrymen in that we born in the same land.' That would seem to make 'Ortali' an Irishman, too, when I intended him for an American-born Italian." We have restored the characters' original nationalities by using text from an existing draft typescript of the story. That existing draft does not bear a title, indicating it was probably a first draft. The magazine version features an epigraph: "And the next instant this great red loon was shaking me like a dog shaking a rat. 'Where is Meve MacDonnal?' he was screaming. By the saints, it's a grisly thing to hear a madman in a lonely place at midnight screaming the name of a woman dead three hundred years.--The Longshoreman's Tale." This epigraph does not appear in the draft typescript, and as it telegraphs an important story element, which seems uncharacteristic of Howard, we have left it off.

224.34.6: fired; 227.29.4: Strange Tales has, after "American," "though born and raised here" text here is from the draft typescript; 227.29.6: typescript has "answered, "my" 228.20.2: Strange Tales has

"ancestors" "birth" in draft typescript; 228.20.12-13: Strange Tales has "have passed the best part of my life" "was born" in draft typescript; 235.38.4: comma after "cairn" 237.39.1: comma after

"superstition'

Worms of the Earth

Text taken from Weird Tales, November 1932. In a letter to H. P. Lovecraft, circa December 1932, Howard noted several errors in the magazine appearance of the story: "Concerning "Worms of the Earth"--I must have been unusually careless when I wrote that, considering the errors--such as "her" for

"his", "him" for "himself", "loathsome" for "loathing", etc.. I'm at a loss to say why I spelled Eboracum as Ebbracum. I must investigate the matter. I know I saw it spelled that way, somewhere; it's not likely I would make such a mistake entirely of my own volition, though I do frequently make errors. Somehow, in my mind, I have a vague idea that it's connected in some way with the Gaelic "Ebroch"--York."

240.8.3: Ebbracum; 243.13.5: him; 244.1.6: Ebbracum; 248.15.1: Ebbracum; 248.17.11: Ebbracum; 249.21.9: Ebbracum; 251.11.2: Ebbracum; 251.17.10: Ebbracum; 253.3.3: laugh; 253.11.6: her; 253.11.15: loathsome; 253.25.5: there is a dash rather than a hyphen in "night-things" 260.1.3: comma after "cast" 262.19.1: Ebbracum; 266.29.1: Ebbracum's; 266.32.5: Cćsar The Symbol

Text taken from Ariel, Autumn 1976. No changes have been made for this edition.

The Valley of the Lost

Text taken from Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation. There are two draft typescripts extant: one titled, the other not. The titled draft has numerous editorial markings, probably by Strange Tales editor Harry Bates, who wrote to Howard on October 4, 1932: "Mr. Clayton the other day instructed me to discontinue Strange Tales, and as a result I have to return your story, "The Valley of the Lost," even marked up as it is with the editorial pencilings. I started to rub out the pencilings but that did not seem to improve the looks of the manuscript much, so I left off."

Many of these editorial markings entirely obscure the original underlying text, making some readings problematic. 269.12.1: "South-west" hyphenated at line break; 269.18.1: right (typed to extreme right edge of paper); 269.18.6: Reynolds; 269.19.1: Donnelly (typed to extreme right edge of paper); 269.22.9: whole-sale; 270.1.10: comma after "pay" 270.3.2: punctuation following "range" obscured; 270.4.1: developement; 270.5.1: country-side; 270.8.8: Reynolds; 270.9.5: Reynolds; 270.11.11: comma after "down" 270.13.6: well now; 270.22.9: it appears a comma was marked out after "speedy"

270.24.7: awhile; 270.27.4: Reynolds; 270.28.3: no comma after "slope" 270.32.6: it appears a comma was marked out after "Ord" 270.35.13: didnt; 270.36.17: no closing quotation mark (typed to extreme right edge of paper); 270.37.1: comma after "Well", no dash; 270.37.8: comma after "Fletcher", no dash; 270.38.5: dont; 270.39.8: its; 271.15.17: comma after "valley" 271.27.11: he; 271.31.10: aint; 271.33.5: cant; 271.37.11: cant; 271.38.14: cant; 272.1.3: wont; 272.3.15: at least one character has been obscured before "right", possibly "a" right" or "a-right" 272.12.8: cant; 272.15.12: something obscured before "walking", probably "a-" 272.23.2: Reynolds; 272.24.9: no comma after "and"

272.41.4: shorted; 272.41.11: redmen; 273.6.7: re-opened; 273.11.9-10: comma after "Valley" rather than "and" 273.14.7: comma after "stones" 273.17.5: half destroyed; 273.20.2: and which; 273.30.11: country-side; 274.27.1: "a" not in titled typescript, is in untitled draft; 274.33.3: it appears a comma was marked out after "where" 274.33.8: it appears a comma was marked out after "sanity" 274.36.9: high heeled; 274.41.9: foot-step; 275.8.1: a word has been marked out before "dead" "stone-dead" in earlier draft; 275.18.5: suddeness; 276.4.3: no comma after "shaken" 276.20.1: letters are marked out after

"burro" 276.22.12: it appears a comma was marked out after "aversion" 276.22.13: comma after "now"

276.30.7: comma after "was" 277.19.9: punctuation after "ears" obscured, possibly a colon; 277.20.3: word obscured, probably "he" 277.25.9: under-tone; 277.34.9: squamy; 277.40.13: conciousness; 278.1.6: inner-most; 278.4.5-6: no commas after "dim" and "strange" 278.28.10: it appears a comma was marked out after "valley" 281.4.5: inhumaness; 281.8.8: an editorial marking for a comma is superimposed over Howard's typed punctuation, possibly a semicolon; 281.9.11: semicolon rather than comma; 281.11.8: a letter has been marked out, possibly this read "survivals" 281.31.8: the initial letter is faint in the copy; "Hell" in earlier draft; 281.37.12: an editorial marking for a comma is superimposed over Howard's typed punctuation, possibly a semicolon; 281.38.1: an editorial marking for a comma is superimposed over Howard's typed punctuation, possibly a semicolon; 282.2.1: carvent (earlier draft has "crystallinecarven"); 282.5.8: ever (typed to extreme right edge of paper); earlier draft has "every"

282.9.11: network; 282.10.1: honey-combing; 282.26.10: redmen; 282.29.1: no comma after

"Meanwhile" 282.35.12: "to" is written (not in REH's hand) over a typed word beginning with "o", probably "of" 282.37.7: it appears a comma was marked out after "gain" 283.13.12: something is marked out, no more than two letters, between "stood" and "among" 283.14.5: land-slide; 283.32.6: it appears a comma was marked out after "eyes" 283.33.6: A word has been marked out, with "Its"

hand-written above (not in REH's hand); earlier draft has "The" 283.41.1: A word has been marked out; earlier draft has "And" 284.16.7: lower-case "l" hand-written over indecipherable typed letter; 284.16.9: upper-case "H" hand-written over indecipherable typed letter; 284.18.7: it appears a comma has been marked out after "sane" 284.19.6: upper-case "H" hand-written over indecipherable typed letter; 285.17.1: punctuation obscured by editorial marking; 285.24.1: A word has been marked out, probably

"And" 285.26.10: side-ways; 285.28.8: comma after "serpent" rather than "and" 286.3.1: it appears a comma has been marked out after "walks" 286.10.9: no comma after "sunlight" 286.26.10: titer; 286.31.1: concious; 286.40.9: didnt; 287.2.5: wasnt; 287.2.7: a letter marked out before "it", probably

"h" 287.2.15: a letter marked out before "it", probably "h" 287.8.9: word has been marked out, appears to be "done" 287.9.5: word of about 3-4 letters marked out, possibly "done" 287.16.1-19.4: these four sentences are all written as one paragraph; 287.18.3: its; 287.19.4: something has been scratched out after "look", possibly dashes or an ellipsis; 287.24.8: punctuation (if any) obscured by editorial marking; earlier draft has comma after "fists" 287.28.3: no comma after "and" 287.28.7: it appears a comma has been marked out after "sticks" 287.31.14: it appears a comma has been marked out after "saddle"

287.32.8: it appears a comma has been marked out after "fuse" 287.33.11: earth-quake; 287.37.3: a letter appears to have been marked out after "rock", possibly "s" 288.20.1: Reynolds The Hoofed Thing

Text taken from Weirdbook Three, 1970 (as "Usurp the Night"). 289.8.1: of; 289.12.1: "run-down"

hyphenated at line break; 289.18.4: delapidation; 290.18.3: no closing quotation mark; 293.3.8: profusedly; 294.14.12: comma after "emerge" 298.25.11: old fashioned; 298.36.3: comma rather than period after "panted" 301.9.18: no comma after 'I' 302.40.9: "a" not in original The Noseless Horror

Text taken from Magazine of Horror, February 1970. 305.5.7: no period after "experience" 308.20.2: lauresl; 308.21.2: no closing quotation mark; 309.22.9: lights; 310.16.6: eyes; 310.34.7: no period after

"barred" 311.6.6-7: "noseless one" set in double quotation marks rather than single; 312.27.4: comma after "indeed" 313.1.13: stair case; 314.20.7: no; 314.39.7: amazed; 317.5.15: brinks; 317.9.3: "Singh"

not in original

The Dwellers Under the Tomb

Text taken from Lost Fantasies 4, 1976. Two earlier draft typescripts are extant, one 13 pages and one 18 pages. The typescript used for the Lost Fantasies (and Black Canaan, Berkley, 1978) publications was not available for this edition. 318.3.2: squeled; 318.21.7: deoman; 319.11.1: sould; 319.17.5: death rattle; 319.18.3: Jonas; 319.37.2: mightmare; 320.8.5-9.3: text between "strike" and "sensation" not in Lost Fantasies version; text taken from 18 page draft typescript; 320.27.8: He; 320.31.9: figeting; 320.32.11: A; 320.33.5: no closing quotation mark; 320.39.14: he's; 321.11.6: that; 321.13.11: through; 321.16.1: undulation; 321.20.10: a; 321.23.8: ancestrial; 321.25.4: stripe; 321.29.8: rock; 321.31.7: for; 321.41.2: "it" not in Lost Fantasies version; this passage not found in drafts; 322.11.14: shattering; 322.12.8: moon lit; 322.20.2: feat; 322.25.3: comma rather than period after "know"

322.26.3-4: Itmight; 322.36.3: recognized; 323.16.8: creek; 323.41.8: lie; 324.1.10: "not" not in Lost Fantasies version; passage not found in drafts; 324.13.4: reverted; 324.27.4: appaled; 324.33.4: "in"

not in Lost Fantasies version; passage not found in drafts; 324.37.5: closing quotation mark after "out."

324.39.1: Open quotation mark before "Are" 325.22.12: earthly; no comma after "earthly" 326.14.4: desipte; 326.14.7: sceptics; 326.26.6: no open quotation mark; 329.3.6: no comma after "roughly"

329.16.3: vertiable; 329.16.11: jug; 330.23.2: though; 330.25.3: back; 330.32.1: steal-thy; 331.1.2: droppin; 331.22.17: comma after "rare" 332.31.11: comma after "labyrinths" 333.29.14: errored; 334.16.1: in habited; 334.25.9: no comma after "sliding" 334.33.3-34.2: text between "be" and "trace"

not in Lost Fantasies version; passage not found in earlier drafts; text taken from Black Canaan; 335.26.10: "writhing" not in Lost Fantasies version, text from 18 page draft typescript; 335.36.6: back; 335.39.6: shone; 336.1.13: guant; 336.13.12: no comma after "grey" 336.14.5: eyes; 336.22.8: sone An Open Window

Text taken from Weird Tales, September 1932. No changes have been made for this edition.

The House of Arabu

Text taken from Avon Fantasy Reader, 1952 (as "The Witch from Hell's Kitchen"). An untitled first draft typescript and an incomplete, titled, second draft typescript of this story are extant. It seems likely that someone else, perhaps agent Oscar Friend, was responsible for rewriting the story for Avon Fantasy Reader. The heading was not used in Avon Fantasy Reader; it is taken from the second draft.

339.5.10: "love-making" hyphenated at line break; 340.34.4: no comma after "conversation" 343.5.7: no closing quotation mark after "accursed" 343.11.11: Mycenćans; 345.26.7: networks; 353.21.1: no closing quotation mark after "eternity" 354.36.4: word; 357.21.1: no comma after "with" 357.32.2: like; 358.32.7: laugher; 358.33.9: making

The Man on the Ground

Text taken from Weird Tales, July 1933. No changes have been made for this edition.

Old Garfield's Heart

Text taken from Weird Tales, December 1933. No changes have been made for this edition.

Kelly the Conjure-Man

Text taken from The Howard Collector, Summer 1964. 376.8.7: 1850's; 377.19.12: the period is placed after the closing quotation mark; 378.22.5: "70's

Black Canaan

Text taken from Weird Tales, June 1936. 385.17.8: "white-washed" hyphenated at line break (hyphenated in draft typescript); 385.20.5: the period is placed after the closing quotation mark; 399.21.14: "criss-crossed" hyphenated at line break (hyphenated in draft typescript); 402.26.6: period rather than comma after "whispered" 405.11.14: dance; To a Woman

Text taken from Modern American Poetry--1933. No changes have been made for this edition.

One Who Comes at Eventide

Text taken from Modern American Poetry--1933. No changes have been made for this edition.

The Haunter of the Ring

Text taken from Weird Tales, June 1934. No changes have been made for this edition.

Pigeons from Hell

Text taken from Weird Tales, May 1938. 426.33.13: "sleep-walker" hyphenated at line break; 427.13.6: "corpse-like" hyphenated at line break; 428.35.2: "hat-brim" hyphenated at line break; 428.39.11: county-seat; 430.22.5: "sun-bathed" hyphenated at line break; 434.5.12: "down" repeated; 435.35.7: county-seat; 436.18.11: county-seat; 439.25.1: "men-folks" hyphenated at line break; 443.10.8: builded

The Dead Remember

Text taken from Argosy, August 15, 1936. No changes have been made for this edition.

The Fire of Asshurbanipal

Text taken from Weird Tales, December 1936. 461.35.14: no period after "city" 463.17.5: the comma is placed after the closing quotation mark

Fragment

Text taken from Weird Tales, December 1937. No changes have been made for this edition.

Which Will Scarcely Be Understood

Text taken from Weird Tales, October 1937. No changes have been made for this edition.

Golnor the Ape

Text taken from Crypt of Cthulhu, Roodmas 1985. 483.9.1: comma after 'night'

Spectres in the Dark

Text taken from Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation. 487.3.13: six hyphens rather than dash; 487.8.2: seven hyphens rather than dash; 487.15.10: Fraser; 487.15.11-12: "Golden Bough" not italicized; 487.17.3: no comma after "However"

487.17.13: reluctrance; 487.19.3: hours; 487.21.4: painting; 487.24.1: mallet like; 487.31.1: no opening quotation mark; 487.31.12: comma rather than period after "first" 487.37.3: period rather than comma after "repeated" 488.7.5: period rather than comma after "game" 488.8.7: Dat; 488.22.3: bot; 488.22.10: bot; 488.24.2: "ten" enclosed in double rather than single quotation marks; 488.24.15: dats; 488.25.4: dats; 488.25.16: aint; 488.28.14: comma rather than period after "life" 488.30.6: wouldnt; 488.32.10: aint; 488.33.5: aint; 488.33.9: dontcha; 488.34.14: dont; 488.36.7: wuznt; 488.38.13: didn't; 488.41.5: involuntarilly, followed by comma rather than period; 489.1.7: taint; 489.1.11: cant; 489.5.2: he; 489.5.9: comma rather than period after "manner" 489.5.11: dont; 489.8.1: some; 489.9.2: period rather than comma after "like" 489.10.1: comma rather than period after "sensations" 489.10.11: cant; 489.11.15: aint; 489.12.1: No opening quotation mark; 489.12.6: dont; 489.13.1: his; 489.13.4: comma rather than period after "broodingly" 489.17.5: comma rather than period after "sullenly"

489.19.8: concious; 489.20.13: comma rather than period after "door" 489.20.14: Its; 489.24.15: Thats; 489.27.7: isnt; 489.30.2: youre; 489.30.3: period rather than comma after "right" 489.30.5: comma rather than period after "muttered" 489.33.2: period rather than comma after "late" 489.38.1: no comma after "Hallworthy" 490.1.9: period rather than comma after "visit" 490.1.11: comma rather than period after "remarked" 490.2.5: America; 490.3.7: comma rather than period after "interrupted"

490.3.9: cant; 490.4.5: period rather than comma after "Joan" 490.4.8: comma rather than period after

"mildly" 490.5.3: didnt; 490.11.3: comma rather than period after "Hallworthy" 490.13.7: abhorence; 490.14.15: dont; 490.16.13: period rather than comma after "us" 490.16.16: comma rather than period after "calmly" 490.22.6: period rather than comma after "Van Dorn" 490.22.8: comma rather than period after "dissented" 490.26.4: period rather than comma after "Malcolm" 490.26.6: no comma after

"Joan" 490.27.2: comma rather than period after "uppermost" 490.27.4: dont; 490.28.4: period rather than comma after "know" 490.28.6: comma rather than period after "answered" 490.32.13: no punctuation after "bloodshot" 490.36.6: comma rather than period after "exclaiming" 490.36.8: dont; 490.36.11: Its; 490.37.9: thats; 490.40.7: period rather than comma after "fellow" 490.40.10: no punctuation after "came" 490.40.11: no punctuation after "soothing" 490.41.1: comma rather than period after "calm" 490.41.6: no punctuation after "know" 491.1.4: period rather than comma after "Clement"

491.5.9: comma rather than period after "haltingly" 491.12.5: dash set before rather than after quotation mark; 491.14.1: comma rather than dash; 491.15.7: hasnt; 491.16.10: he; 491.16.12: comma rather than period after "violently" 491.23.5: excercize; 491.31.2: hi; 491.32.3: no punctuation after "I"

491.34.5: period rather than comma after "Clement" 491.34.8: comma rather than period after

"presently" 492.1.1: no punctuation after "physically" 492.4.2: comma after "have" 492.19.13: no comma after "sensation" 492.20.1: evidently; 492.21.4: no period after "movies" 492.21.5: he; 492.24.13: comma after "think" 492.25.14: didn't; 492.31.7: comma after "kill" 492.34.10: period rather than comma after "himself" 492.34.12: comma rather than period after "answered" 493.3: no blank line space; 493.17: no blank line space; 493.25.1: recieved; 493.28.6: no comma after "assaults"

493.30.11: Hallworthy's; 493.39.1: unconcious; 493.40.14: wilfull, followed by comma; 494.1.11: no comma after "judgment" 494.1.14: no comma after "needed" 494.6.9: period rather than comma after

"woman" 494.6.11: comma rather than period after "answered" 494.9.8: period rather than comma after

"child" 494.13.10: thats; 494.15.9: coercing; 494.16.3: tyrranny; 494.24.6: period rather than comma after "right" 494.24.8: comma rather than period after "said" 494.25.5: comma rather than period after

"Hallworthy" 494.28.5: comma rather than period after "hand" 494.28.8: no comma after "then"

494.31.1: No opening quotation mark; 494.37.12: assimulate; 495.3: no blank line space; 495.9.1: no comma after "New York" 495.10: no blank line space; 495.11.5: "days" was originally typed, then

"nights" typed above, with a slash marking indicating placement following "days", but "days" was not crossed out; 495.15.7: darknes (paper torn); 495.17.1: sensatio (typed to right edge of paper); 495.22: no blank line space; 495.23.10: concious; 495.27.1: "were" was originally typed, then "had been" was typed above, with no indication of placement; 495.28.3: no comma after "Costigan" 495.29.3: no comma after "room" 496.5.10: over took; 496.8.3: no comma after "that" 496.17.1: Whats; 496.18.9-14: "reminding me" was originally typed, then "in a manner that remined me" was typed above with no indication of placement; 496.18.13: remined; 496.20.1: period rather than comma after

"Nothin'" 496.20.9: comma rather than period after "statement" 496.22.1: comma rather than period after "cunning" 496.22.11: wont; 496.30.2-4: "somewhat suprized" was originally typed, with

"wondering idly at" typed above; 496.34.2: "was just" originally typed, with "upon" typed above; 496.36.3: hasnt; 496.38.8: skurry; 497.2.2: it; 497.2.11: comma rather than period after "child" 497.4.2: if; 497.5.5: comma rather than period after "dumfounded" 497.7.5: clothings; 497.7.6: dissarranged; 497.13.4: dont; 497.13.5: comma rather than period after "understand" 497.13.6: Why The House

Text taken from Howard's original typescript, a copy of which was provided by the Robert E. Howard Foundation. 498.1.15: Why; 498.12.3: explai (typed to right edge of paper); 498.27.4: no comma after

"brother" 498.28.9: sales-man; 498.38.7: mad-house; 499.5.10: no comma after "Justin" 499.6.1: no period after "lunacy" (typed to right edge of paper); 499.17.4: mad hous (typed to right edge of paper); 499.19.8: complete; 499.26.9: dew wet; 499.36.3: comma rather than period after "exclaimed" 500.9.9: any one; 500.11.16: momento; 500.12.8: big brotherly; 500.14.11: good natured; 500.16.7: round faced; 500.17.9: narrow bridged; 500.18.12: towseled; 500.23.3: himself; 500.25.2: good natured; 500.31.1: industrially; 500.37.8: what ever; 500.41.1: socialogy; 501.2.9: histor (typed to right edge of page); 501.4.1: no opening quotation mark; 501.6.6: back ground; 501.8.4: Poets; 501.11.6: conciousness; 501.13.3: comma rather than period after "snapped" 501.22.12: country-side; 501.28.5: dreams; 501.29.7: no comma after "Evidently" 501.31.4: an (typed to right edge of paper); 501.31.12: no comma after "reply" 501.33.6: coul (typed to right edge of paper); 501.34.14: comma after "added"

rather than "that" 501.37.11-12: kodak snap shot; 502.1.2: Its; 502.3.5: comma rather than period after

"up" 502.4.1: Lets; 502.9.10: tempermental; 502.11.8: knife edge; 502.17.10: Why; 502.20.5: didnt; 502.22.5: comma rather than period after "admitted" 502.23.3: comma rather than period after "cried"

502.26.6: gibuous; 502.26.8: no comma after "mistily" 502.27.3: tumble down; 502.31.9: snap shot; 502.32.1: exclude; 502.37.3: its; 502.38.3: its; 502.38.10: its; 502.39.5-6: the house; 502.41.4: hasnt; 503.5.4-5: the house; 503.10.7: comma rather than period after "Conrad" 503.10.9: dont; 503.23.5: doesnt; 503.31.2: visi (typed to right edge of paper); 503.34.4: metropoli (typed to right edge of paper); 504.1.10: comma rather than period after "mayor" 504.6.5: comma rather than period after "Conrad"

504.8.6: comma rather than period after "Skuyler" 504.11.7: Neither; 504.13.1: barreness; 504.16.10: comma rather than period after "Conrad" 504.17.1: encountere (typed to right edge of paper); 504.25.4: If; 504.29.2: no comma after "it" 504.29.16-30.1: the house; 504.32.4: The; 504.33.10: some-one; 504.35.2: some-one; 504.35.9: boot-leg

Untitled Fragment

Text taken from The Howard Collector, Spring 1967. 506.3.5: comma after "Africa'

I would like to thank Rob Bliss, Dean Howarth, Emma Clayton, and Simon Bisley for their friendship and creative support. All the guys at Paradox Entertainment and the R. E. Howard estate for having faith in me. Special thanks to Jim & Ruth for all of your help in finally getting the project started and making my job so enjoyable. Finally my Mum Debbie for always being there when I need her, my wife Karen and son Harrison for keeping me sane and making me laugh, I love you.

Greg Staples

Many, many thanks to Rob Roehm for his efforts in getting all the texts together for this book, and to Patrice Louinet and Paul Herman for their help and counsel. Thanks, once more, to Stuart, for his customary patience with my deadline-pushing ways, and to Jim and Ruth for all their hard work in bringing this thing together. To the gang at Del Rey for their patience and expertise. To Marcelo--this first experience of doing a book without you just made me realize all the more how much you did, and what a genius you are. To Glenn Lord, for all the years of friendship and help. To Steve Trout, who long ago opened my eyes to Howard's horror stories. And as always to Shelly, all my love, for patiently putting up with me when I get absorbed in these projects.

Rusty Burke

We'd like to thank Marcelo Anciano--the catalyst for this series. Thanks also to Rusty, Stuart, Jay, and Greg. Very special thanks goes to Ed Waterman and Patricia Keegan.

Jim & Ruth Keegan

For this, my ninth book in this series, I'd like to thank Marcelo Anciano, who started the ball rolling over ten years ago, for involving me in a dream project; Rusty Burke for his dedication to all things Howardian; and Jim and Ruth Keegan for keeping the job on track. I've enjoyed working on the prevous books, but I've been waiting for this one from the start--Howard's horror stories--in my opinion, the cream of the crop. I can't wait to read it!

Stuart Williams

THE FULLY ILLUSTRATED ROBERT E. HOWARD LIBRARY

from Del Rey Books

The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian

The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane

The Bloody Crown of Conan

Bran Mak Morn: The Last King

The Conquering Sword of Conan

Kull: Exile of Atlantis

The Best of Robert E. Howard

Volume 1: Crimson Shadows

The Best of Robert E. Howard

Volume 2: Grim Lands

The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard

The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Del Rey Trade Paperback Original

Copyright Š 2008 by Robert E. Howard Properties, LLC

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Some material contained herein may be public domain in certain territories. No portion of this book may be reproduced--mechanically, electronically, or by any other means, including photocopying--without written permission of the applicable copyright holder.

Previous publication information for the stories contained in this work can be found beginning on frontMatter.

Published by arrangement with Robert E. Howard Properties, LLC.

ROBERT E. HOWARD, BRAN MAK MORN, and related names, logos, characters, and distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks or registered trademarks of Robert E. Howard Properties, LLC. All rights reserved. SOLOMON KANE and related names, logos, characters, and distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks or registered trademarks of Solomon Kane, Inc. All rights reserved.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Howard, Robert Ervin, 1906--1936.

The horror stories of Robert E. Howard / illustrated by Greg Staples.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references.

eISBN: 978-0-345-50974-1

1. Horror tales, American. I. Title.

PS3515.O842A6 2007

813'.52--dc22 2008028474

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Art Directors: Jim & Ruth Keegan

Editor: Rusty Burke

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