Page:Weird Tales Volume 35 Issue 04 (1940-07).djvu/77

Rh to stand out in grotesque silhouette. A train on the Third Avenue "el" went grinding by. And now she imagined she could make out the forms of figures creeping along the rooftops. They were after Sam Wong. They were after her, too, because they imagined she was his mistress. In terror she turned and sped down the stairs.

The halls were dimly lighted. They too seemed to be seething with wraiths and shadows. Once a malevolent face loomed up before her and two gnarled bony hands clutched at her like talons. But she evaded them and continued down the stairs. She breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the street. But even now she dreaded to look behind her. Hurriedly crossing the street she turned neither to right nor left and so it was that she did not notice the large beer truck that was bearing down upon her. As she went down, the truckman clamped on the brakes and a woman screamed. But Barby felt no pain, she even smiled, for miraculously Sam Wong was bending over her.

"Come, Ivory Girl," he said gently. "We will go back to my rooms where we can find quietude."

"But is there no danger?" she asked.

"Not now," said he, and her wonderment grew.

So hand in hand they walked back to Sam Wong's apartment on Pell Street. But now the stairs did not seem dark as they mounted. There was a pale blue glow as though a lantern had been lighted.

As Sam Wong pushed open the door of the apartment, Li Po greeted them with a song so beautiful it seemed as though the city had paused and stood on tiptoe to listen.

Barby placed her hand on Sam Wong's arm. "But I thought Li Po was dead," she whispered.

Sam Wong smiled reassuringly. "Not dead," he said softly, "living. Now we are all—living."





Speak not above a whisper, lest the dead Wake to avenge themselves; and say no word Of anything which may bring down the dread Curse on us like a hawk upon a bird. Silence is fitting here—the dead have ears That never sleep; they wreak their dark designs Without restraint, nor do they brandish spears Fashioned from ore of any earthly mines.

I know their wrath, for I have seen their flight Through the dark labyrinths of murky night To visit whom they hate, and I have heard The hissing of their cauldrons as they stirred The blood of men in a most loathsome broth, And hell-fire sputtering the dripping froth.