Page:Weird Tales v33n05 (1939-05).djvu/10

8 Those eyes are wide and darkly shadowed, but I doubt if they have any authentic color of their own. They must reflect things—lights and colors around her, moods and thoughts of her own. I can swear at times that they are a light gray that is almost colorless; again that they are black; and sometimes they hold an undefined depth of color. Also, she is ageless. At times she is fifteen, or even younger; sometimes any age—old, too experienced—not, however, ever tired. Something behind those eyes is always burning, shining—I hate women who think too much. If we were back in the world of men and women and I met her everywhere, I should make it a point never to see her when I could help it. She is an utterly antipathetic type; interesting, but repellant.

"When you and the others are out of sight, this rock is as good as any other place," she said. "I don't have to watch you meeting death halfway, eating it, drinking it, thinking it. I can be normal, if I don't see any of you. Death is only a change in life, anyway. When I am dead, as you would say, I will be alive as Kerry has been for six years. And tonight I intend to break your arbitrary ruling, your Majesty. I am not rejoining the others. I am sleeping here—alone."

I left her, hating her a little more than usual. Kerry was her husband. He had died six years ago, and he is far more of a personality to Valerie than any of us. Yes, to Valerie, death resembles a rather handsome dark man in a gray business suit—Kerry Dorn had walked across the street on his way to work in New York. He had not absent-mindedly strolled in front of a truck, but he had leaped there to push a child out of the way, and of course that made him a hero. But it hardly made him a living hero after six years. But to Valerie, it did.

I left her—with Kerry, after telling her that she is a thanatophile; in love with death. Where Kerry Dorn is, he is not worrying about her any more.

And I went back to the others, who had drawn close together with the falling of darkness. For now it was dark—very dark. We talked a little.

"After all, I remember pretty tough camping trips"

To think we attempted a little cheer—that night! Last night. The night of ultimate horror.

HE others slept, one by one. I must have dozed, for I thought we were all still together, except for Valerie, when I heard her scream.

It was late, and a slightly gibbous moon hung, lop-sided and swollen-looking, low in the sky. The top of the rock was bleak and bare and visible, all but the part hidden by Valerie's sheltering column of rock. To that I raced, forgetting weakness and the pounding of my heart. And around on the other side of that rock column, I saw again the surface of the rock—bleak and bare—with no one visible upon it.

I listened, but heard no sound. There were only two possibilities—she had plunged into the glassy, moonlit waters, screaming as she leaped or fell; or she was in the only really concealed place on the whole rock—the cavern where a few hours ago horror had lurked, because our two lovers had attempted double murder there.

I scrambled and stumbled down to it again, and it was as though the horror reached out for me, met me, drew me by the hand. The mouth of the cave was lit by a truly ghastly, quivering reflected light, for it was on the moonward side of the little island. The back of the cave was in darkness. Darkness and silence. And yet, something was there—something living or something dead. Again, horror and tragedy.

I—I, Michael Sydney—was afraid, partly for myself, partly for Valerie. Back