Page:Weird Tales Volume 3 Number 3 (1923-03).djvu/74



ARRISON himself would not tell you this story. Right after it occurred he could think and talk of nothing else. His friends found it so incredible that he was suspected of mental unbalance, and only after he resolved to avoid discussing it was he set at liberty. But the friends of his youth have all passed beyond now, and to me, as his trusted confidant, he one night told the story in detail.

Harrison has for years held a famous chair in one of the foremost Eastern universities, and I shall repeat his story as accurately as I can remember it, trying to let him tell it in his own way and leaving out the quotation marks. Needless to say, he will probably deny that this story has anything to do with him, even if you ask him.

Imagine us, then, comfortably seated in the professor's dimly-lighted study, before us an open box of cigars, with a bottle from the scholar's carefully hoarded stock of pre-Volstead nectar. The varicolored bindings of the thousands of books which line the study walls are reflected softly in the dark recesses of the room. Professor Harrison is telling me in his even, cultured voice the story of the Terrors by Night:

Hair-raising adventures right here in New Harbor? You might not think it possible, perhaps. But I know. There are times when the dark and malicious forces that hide behind the veil of Nature come forth, free to assault and lay waste the minds of those whom they chance to meet. There are many persons who could tell you stories as strange as that which I am telling you, but they are afraid to.

And those who have not had any such adventures are even more afraid—afraid that they may some night themselves meet such weird beings. Just as we put murderers and dangerous criminals in jail, or even execute them, so we thrust those who have seen the terrors by night into asylums and other institutions. By keeping out of sight those who have actually seen the Terrors, we hope to deny their existence and forget them.

I love the night. When you cherish the darkness and prefer it to the coarser glare of day, you are able to penetrate deeper into what really is. Landscapes and buildings, which by day are ugly and stupid, at night become beautiful and interesting.

Have you never noticed that the same thing happens with people? Faces and forms that would never win a second glance on the street at noon, become mystical and immensely important as they vaguely move through the nocturnal shadows. The poetic and imaginative creations that spring from the brains of writers turn into realities and take visible form before our eyes.

It was a calm night early in June, many years ago, when I suddenly awoke after a few hours sleep. From my childhood days I have been able to sleep soundly only after dawn, not before it. During the hours when the sun deserts this hemisphere my thoughts race along eagerly as they never do in broad daylight.

I was as fully alive and awake as it is possible for a poor human being of ordinary flesh and bones to be. The air was miraculously still, and the trees outside the dormitory windows were as motionless and rigid as if they were enclosed in a dome of glass or had been frozen stiff.

That very day I had successfully passed my examinations for honors. To be sure, I was never a student to whom learning comes easily. It was always a hard struggle for me to master a deep book, but I was resolved to be a scholar, and I had by dint of intense and prolonged study come out at the head of my college class. I need not tell you, who have studied under my direction, what degrees and honors have come to me since I concentrated in a field of science in which I am called by many of my colleagues the most learned of living men.

That night, I repeat, I had come home from a little party of friends who had assembled to congratulate me on attaining the head of the class. If had been a very quiet party, after all. We had had a few bottles of wine and a very substantial dinner. We were limited in funds and not able to carry dissipation very far. I had reached my dormitory at about eleven o'clock, and soon after I had dropped off to sleep.

Then I suddenly awoke, as I just stated, and at once noted an extraordinary sensation of clearness and calm in the atmosphere. There was a feeling of suspense, of expectation, something like holding your breath and wondering how long your lungs and heart can stand it. I glanced at the clock, whose face stood out visible in the moonlight, and noted that it was five after one.

I felt an insuperable desire to go out, to run and race my shadow in the moonlight. Somebody seemed to be calling me, and I felt that my presence was urgently required somewhere. The compulsion to arrive at the class-room that I feel whenever the hours for my lecture arrives was never more irresistible. I knew that I was tired and ought to get a good rest in preparation for the trials of Commencement Day. But I could not withstand that summons. Follow it I must. Out there in the silent, silvery moonlight I was wanted. I could not linger nor hesitate longer.

Not a leaf was stirring when I finally dressed and went out. There was nobody visible anywhere about the college campus. As soon as I began to walk I felt imperceptibly guided. I knew where I must go. It was not in this vicinity, but a mile or more beyond the town, to a half-developed park where young folks sometimes wandered to spoon on warm summer evenings, but which would be quite deserted at this hour.

The wide-sweeping elms that adorn this part of the country seemed to open an avenue straight to the place where I should go. I hardly noticed the streets and the country roads along which I passed in haste. But these giant plants that have weathered the years and seen thousands of human beings scurry by only to disappear, while they still survive, were aware of me. They watched me in awe and amazement as they drew back their mighty arms and made way for me. Even so I was bathed and drenched in a shower of peace and happiness. The obscurity of the cloudless night was soft and delicate. The moon looked down upon me with interest and marked each step of mine. My shadow swung its arms wildly, dangled its legs, doubling and twisting its head as it fell on a smooth stone wall or fluttered along in the wagon ruts.

At last I reached the park.

For a moment I stood undecided. In the distance I heard a sound. It was like the muffled, pleading groan of somebody