The Chadwick Pit and Another Gruesome Story | Podcast - Nightshade Diary

Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Do you feel a sharer up your spine from fear? Yes,
it's another story from the Night's Shade Diary. You know
what that means. Check under the bed and make sure
no one or nothing is there. Is the closet door
securely shut. Then leave your disbelief behind, amp up your
imagination and hang on tight for another ride into terror

(00:22):
and mystery. And like all good horror stories, just imagine
it's a dark and stormy night, and remember screaming like
a little girl is permitted. The Chadwick Pit by Carl Jacoby.

(00:43):
Chadwick walked slowly up the lane and gazed with satisfaction
at his property. The more he saw of it, the
more he considered it a stroke of luck. It wasn't
often that one could buy ten acres of land and
a house of his particular needs for the small amount
he had paid. He had wanted a house modern, yet
with an architecture of the past, in an isolated location

(01:05):
where he could continue the recluse like existence he had
lead in the city. O Weigo House answered all those wants.
O Weigo it was an Indian name, he had been told.
Seen through a copse of cedars, the house looked friendly
and inviting, with a wide veranda, oversized burgundy shutters, and
a new substantial roof tile. Then Chadwick's gaze turned fifty

(01:29):
yards east. For a weego was an odd name for
a house. Dead man's pit was an appropriate name for
the great sinkhole that marked the end of his property.
Here were rank weeds, thorn bushes, and ragged outcroppings. In
the center of this voistland was a deep depression, filled
with waters so black it didn't even reflect the sky.

(01:51):
The borders were strewn with rocks. Side of the place
depressed Chadwick, and he turned back down the lane toward
the house and then driveway. His parked station wagon reminded
him that his weekly trip to town for supplies was overdue.
He got into the car and headed toward black Top
three in Chaska. He parked and went to several shops,

(02:13):
where he talked very little to the tradespeople and the
hardware store. However, he found conversation pressed upon him. How
do you like your new place, the hardware man said,
as he packaged the nails Chadwick had purchased. I like
it all right, Chadwick said, it's a nice house. The
man said, considering that it's been there close to a
hundred years, I thought a hundred years ago this was

(02:35):
all Indian country. The man rang up the register. Farther north,
maybe not here, but that pit on your place was
once an old Indian burial mound. The first two owners
dug it all up, looking for treasure or something. Did
they find any, Chadwick asked, I don't think so. The

(02:56):
first was before my time, but he's supposed to have
shot himself accidentally. The second just went away and never
came back. Nobody ever saw or heard of him. Chadwick
turned to go well, it's an eye store, he said,
I suppose I'll have it filled up one of these days.
The man's face darkened perceptibly. I don't think i'd do that,

(03:17):
he said. If I were you, i'd just leave it alone.
Chadwick went out to his car, musing over the merchant's words.
He tossed his packages into the rear seat. The August
street was hot and sultry. In by contrast, the library
on the opposite corner, a block away, shaded by a
couple of alms, looked cool and inviting an impulse. He

(03:40):
crossed the street walked the block and climbed the steps inside.
To the girl behind the desk, he said, I'd like
some information on the building of a summer house, plans, pictures,
anything you have. She was gone almost ten minutes. When
she returned, she looked at Chadwick with interest. You rarely
hear of such thing any more. Are you planning to

(04:02):
build one yourself? She was attractive in a fragile way,
with long, dark hair and lustrous eyes. Ed been a
long time since Chadwick had been attracted to a girl,
but now he felt himself talking without restraint. She was
a ready listener. Before leaving, he learned her name, Emily Hunter.
With a lighter step than he had known in years,

(04:24):
he went out again into the blazing street. Chasco was
an old town built along the Minnesota River. A German
settlement with a characteristic neatness evident on all sides. Its
streets were redolent with a summer musk from the bottom lands.
The county seat court house faced a center park, and
as Chadwick strode past, a heavy set, red faced man

(04:47):
with a wide brimmed hat came out and hailed him.
It was the sheriff, Tom Blunt just wondered how you
were getting along, Blunt said, lighting a cigar with the
kitchen match. I'm okay, Chadwick said, you figuring on staying
in your new place alone? I don't suppose there's any
law that says a man has to have a regiment

(05:09):
around him, Chadwick replied tessely. Plunt grin no law. Only
your place is pretty far out. I'm used to being alone.
What are you figuring on doing with the pit? What
do you mean, what am I going to do with it? Well,
it's a dangerous place. The cast and boy drowned there

(05:29):
a year ago. He'd been studying anthropology and he was
looking for relics. Always talk about what he considered the
one disagreeable feature of his property irritated Chadwick. I suppose
I'll have it filled up? He said. It was a
second time that day he had made that statement, and
for the second time it prompted an odd reply. I

(05:53):
don't think it's necessary to do that, Blunt said, quickly.
Why don't you just fence it off and put up
a few warm signs. Chadwick said that he would consider
the matter, and as soon as he decently could, he
broke away, returned to his car, and headed back for home.
For several weeks after that, he busied himself repairing to Ronda,

(06:14):
railing some of the rungs had rotted out, tidying up
the grounds, and poring over the construction books that Emily
had selected for him. It was true that he had
wanted a summer house for a long time. Such a
building had lingered in his memory since childhood, and it
was a desire for one that had been a major
reason behind his move from the city. He decided to

(06:35):
build a conventional structure with a stonework lower portion and
a screened upper part open to the air. Most of
the material he could obtain in Chasca. The stones for
the lower portion were available close at hand in the pit.
He went to the sinkhole, selected the stones with care,
and trundled them in a barrow to the house grounds.

(06:57):
The work was hard, and he was disconcerted to find
himself so completely exhausted. Not only did he have tired muscles,
but the tasks, particularly while he was in the pit,
for some reason, affected his eyes. Once he fancied, he
saw a head shaped rock in the center come to life,
and moved toward him, and once, when he peered down

(07:17):
into the black water, he thought his sound elongated, shallow
like a sea serpent writhe and twisted just below the surface.
But all his troubles vanished several weeks later, when the
summer house, with the aid of two Chasca youths, was
finally completed. Quickly the building molded itself into his life.
He began to spend the long summer afternoons there a

(07:40):
strange quality of contentment fell over him as he sat
at the little iron table in the circular room, drinking
julips from a frosty glass. He installed the couch and
passed the sultry knight stretched out upon it. To surprise,
he found that sleep, which had always been a problem
with him, now came with ease. His sleep, however, was

(08:01):
marred by dreams. Like all men, Chadwick had had his
share of dreams since childhood, and as with most persons,
these dreams were usually disconnected, distorted, and marked by complete
lack of logic. Now, however, they were different. Though he
could remember no details, he now retained three impressions upon awakening, search, flight,

(08:25):
and pursuit by persons or things unknown. What he was
searching for was not clear. Sometimes it was for a
jungle beast, sometimes a composite, always female. The flight followed immediately,
whether the search was successful or not, he fled, panic stricken,
with leaden feet, unable to run or hurry. The pursuit

(08:47):
was a relentless thing that followed him and constituted a
horror from which he knew there was no escape. These
dreams formed a cohesive unit two that as the action
continued logically from one night to another. But the aspect
that was incredible, which he could not at first make
himself believe, was the fact that these dreams came only

(09:10):
when he slept in the summerhouse. On those occasions, when
he spent the night in the house bedroom, the sequence
was broken, and he either did not dream at all,
or his sleeping fantasies were the usual, blind, meaningless affairs
of before. Sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night,
bathed in perspiration, shaking with fear, to discover odd things,

(09:32):
the door unlocked, or his clothes piled in a disorderly
heap in the middle of the floor. Yet the very
anticipation of those dreams affected him like an opiate, and
he could not force himself to stay away from the summerhouse.
On a morning following several nights when the dreams had
been particularly enervating, Chadwick was on his verunda when Sheriff

(09:53):
Blunt drove up in the neighborhood. Blunt said, so I
thought i'd stop by seeing any strangers around. I haven't
seen anybody, Chadwick said. Then you haven't heard what happened
the last few days. Chadwick shook his head. I haven't
been to town in more than a week. Well, we've
had a murder, Blunt said, and a disappearance which might

(10:15):
well be a second. Chadwick stared. We found Jim Evans's wife.
He's a Chaska jeweler, strangled in a ditch along forty one,
and Irene Trask hasn't been seen since Wednesday night. I've
got two deputies working round the clock, Blunt continued, but
so far we haven't come up with anything. You better

(10:38):
keep an eye out. Living all alone out here, Chadwick
got up and walked to the end of the veranda.
He came back slowly and sat down again. A distant
look injered his eyes. A long time ago, he said, haltingly,
it must have been around fifty five. I did a
hitch on the Chicago police Force. That's ain't hitty, of course,

(11:00):
but I'd be glad to help in any way I can.
Blunt nodded, I might take you up on that. He said,
did you know a detective sergeant named Fallon? I think
he was in Chicago about that time. I don't recall
the name. In spite of the police background that he
had mentioned, Chadwick was disturbed by the Sheriff's warning. After

(11:21):
Blunt had gone, he began a search of his grounds,
Although he had no idea what he was looking for.
The doom, which had seemed to lie and wait for
him in his dreams, now became almost a reality. He
was chagrined to find himself glancing over his shoulder at
every wind tossed clump of foliage. In the back of

(11:41):
the house, facing the direction of the pit, he found
one of the lower windows open, but there was no
footprints near, so he attributed it to his own negligence.
There were, however, footprints leading to the driveway where he
parked his car. Now far away was a little pile
of cigaret red stubbs, as if someone had stood there

(12:02):
a long time. Then he saw there were his bride
and realized that he must have forgotten being there. His
car gave more concern, though he couldn't be sure. The
gas supplies seemed less and the odometer reading more than
when he had last driven, but it would have been
impossible for anyone to have taken the car without awakening him,

(12:22):
even though the driveway was some distance from the house.
He gave a vague impression of night driving and of
walking in the darkness, but this he knew was only
a residue of his summer house dreams. For years, he
had never gone any place after sundown. The loneliness of
his property began to weigh on him. He had the

(12:45):
unpleasant feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. On Friday,
he drove to Chasca. The town was in a state
of excitement. The body of the missing girl, Irene Trask,
had been found strangled, and there was another disappear. Parents.
Sheriff Blunt stood on the courthouse steps talking to his
deputies and a state police officer. Chadwick went into the

(13:08):
library to return the construction books. He found Emily Hunter
almost in a state of hysteria. She told them the
missing girl, Mary Philben was one of her closest friends.
I can't understand why anyone would want to harm her,
she said. She was liked by everybody, A tall, thin
girl with reddish hair. Yes, do you know her? He

(13:31):
shook his head. I've probably seen her around town. An
effort to calm her, he changed the subject and talked
of casual things. She quieted and smiled a little. Anyone
would know your bachelor, She said, you're wearing one black
sock and one brown, and you really should stay out
of the mud. Mister Chadwick, tell me, did you finish

(13:52):
your summer house. Chadwick nodded, yes, but I'm afraid the
job was a little too much for me. I had
helped on all except the stone work. Where did you
get the stones in the pit that's a sort of
sinkhole on my property? Her face clouded, Yes, I know
the pit. You shouldn't have taken the stones from their,

(14:14):
mister Chadwick, Why not, she fingered, repended. Let's just say
it isn't a healthy place. It has an evil reputation. Yes,
I know, Chadwick's said the cast and boy drowned there
a year ago. But he was Billy Casten was one
of the finest swimmers in Carver County. Back home, Chadwick

(14:38):
tried to think more of his days as a police officer.
He had told Blunt that he was on a Chicago
force in fifty five, but he could recall little of
that work, save a few trips in a prowl carn.
Even those were hazy, like the recollection of an old
gangster movie. And now occurred to him that there were
still some parts of his house that he had no

(15:00):
not fully examined. It seemed to him as good a
time as any to do a little exploring. He took
a flashlight and descended to the cellar. There were actually
two cellars, one opening off the other, but there was
nothing in either except a plenitude of cobwebs and some
empty boxes. He went up to the second floor and
prowled down the quarridor toward the rear. He came upon

(15:22):
a room he had not injured before. Here a one
shaft of sunlight filtered through a dirty pain to reveal
a few pieces of discarded furniture and a carpet gray
with dust. About to leave, he saw a large cabinet
almost hidden by a pile of draperies. It was filled
with books. Chadwick stepped closer and ran his eyes over

(15:42):
the titles. They were a curious assortment. Many were cheap
novels of a generation ago, but there were also a
few authoritative volumes on psychology, psychic research, strange myths, and
primitive beliefs. One the last bore the title the Prehistoric
Hopewell Culture. Chadwick refled through the pages. He stopped at

(16:04):
a passage mark with a pencil check quote. An utterly
strange culture preceded the North American Indian by several thousand years.
It was unique for its complex burial mounds and its
so called cult of the dead. It is the warnings
of this cult of the dead which have come down
to us through the midst of the past. The filers

(16:26):
of the burial mounds were promised all the avenging horrors
of the culture's diabology. Chadwick closed the book thoughtfully. He
selected several psychology volumes which at the moment were more
interest to him, and carried them downstairs. He had become
increasingly concerned with dreams the last few days, and each

(16:49):
of the books had one or more chapters on this subject,
for his nightmares in the Summerhouse had grown more and
more disturbing, although he could still remember no specific details.
Upon awakening, the three impressions, search, flight, and pursuit continued.
Now the search was intensified, a powerful urge to seek

(17:10):
out something. The flight, too, was more frantic, and the
pursuit was a nameless terror that followed him relentlessly. These
dreams were debilitating, too, The left Chadwick exhausted, almost as
if he had not slept at all yet. Though he
knew that he had only to move from the summer
house to end them, somehow he couldn't do that. It

(17:33):
was as if he were taking a stimulant, sweet, bitter,
unpleasant habit. Forming Later, on a cheerless morning, three days
after his trip to Chasca, he was awakened by a
distant pistol shot. Ten minutes later, Sheriff Blunt appeared at
the edge of his grounds, followed by one of his deputies.
Thought we saw him, Blunt said, disgustedly, But it was

(17:54):
only his jacket hang on a bush. We traced them
across Barlow's swamp. Blunt continued, He seemed to be heading
to the pit. Then Jake here saw the jacket and
took a shot. The trail was cold. Have you seen
anyone not a soul? Chadwick said, Have there been any
more killings? Blunt looked at his deputy and frown No,

(18:17):
he said, no more murders, but another disappearance. I believe
you know her, the Hunter girl. Chadwick's draw went slack.
Not Emily, he cried, the girl who works in the library.
He made fist of his hands Blunt, he said, after
a long moment of silence, you've got to deputize me.

(18:38):
If you don't, I'll go on my own. The sheriff
nodded sympathetically. All right, he said, I understand. After Blunt
had gone, Chadwick went into his house and looked for
his revolver. He found the gun. It wasn't a police special,
but an old Webley Scott automatic. Outside he got into
a station wagon and drove fast to Black Top three.

(19:01):
There were a thousand places he could search. Emily Hunter
lived close to Chaska in forty one, but almost automatically
headed in the opposite direction toward the Victoria cut off.
He didn't know why he did this. He had never
driven the cut off, Yet a recollection of this road
seemed to come to him. His mind seet if only

(19:22):
it had been someone else. The thoughts struck him that
his actions now were repetitive, like scenes from a movie
run many times. And then abruptly the spell was broken.
He looked upon his surroundings with complete unfamiliarity. Puzzled, he
turned the car and headed for home. In the central room,
he buried his head in his hands. He must do something,

(19:46):
he must think. From the table, he took up one
of the psychology books he had brought down from the
little room upstairs, as if it had been read many
times at that place. The book fell open to the
chapter on dreams. Half uncon Chadwick began to read. The
dream is the least understood part of the human psyche.

(20:06):
The distortion, irrationality, and lack of logical coherence which characterized
many of them is no doubt the result of a
multitude of subliminal perceptions, and is almost impossible to explain.
He turned a page. No interpretation of the dream can
be made without liberal references to mythology, folklore, and primitive

(20:29):
beliefs such as witchcraft, lycanthropy, et cetera. It is a
curious fact that the dreamer need have no prior knowledge
of these Kabbalah. They are universal in their distribution. Chadwick
discarded the book and took up another, it too open
of its own accord to the dream chapter. In nineteen

(20:51):
forty five, the Belgian Anatole Armand quoted the case of
a man who, whilst sleep not only noctumulated a considerable distance,
but also lived a life completely divorced from his waking hours.
Yet he had no knowledge of that life. To offset this,
he created for himself a fantasy passed. Such cases are

(21:12):
extremely rare, and it is thought that only some malignant
influence could induce such a condition. Chadwick's eyes drifted from
the page to the table. There where he had emptied
his pockets upon coming in from outside, were a couple
of objects he didn't remember seen before. A length of
window sash chord with each and carefully bound with tape

(21:35):
to prevent fraying, and a short piece of rounded wood
with a wide, deep notch cut about six inches from
one end. He looked at them puzzled for the moment,
unable to explain their presence. It was now several hours
since Sheriff Blunt had told him about Emily Hunter, and
he suddenly realized he had done absolutely nothing. A confused

(21:57):
picture flashed before his inner eye of her standing at
his side, now running before him. He gathered up his
things from the table, went back out to his car,
and headed for Chaska. He seemed to be viewing his
surroundings through prism, with everything strange and out of proportion.
At the town outskirts, a car suddenly pulled diagonically across

(22:18):
the road in front of his blocking the way. The
Sheriff E Mergant approached. Oh it's you. We're stopping our cars.
We're your head in Chadwick. Chadwick spread his hands on
the wheels. Well, there's no sense to our driving two cars.
Blunt said, I'll go along with you. He walked back,
drove his car into the far side the road, and

(22:40):
a moment later it climbed in beside Chadwick. Uncertainly, Chadwick
shifted gears. For some time. He drove in silence, then
he burst into speech. We can't just go blind. You
must have some idea. No, I haven't. The show's face
was immobile. We don't know if Emily Hunters alive or dead.

(23:01):
We do know that with the other two victims, there
was an interlude of about forty hours between the time
of their disappearance and their death. We know that both
were kept alive in one place and then taken somewhere
else to be murdered. I'm hoping the killer will keep
to the same schedule. If he does, we may have
a small margin of time left. Why would he do that?

(23:22):
Chadwick hurt himself, ask the sheriff's shrug. There's no explaining
a psychotic killer. I figure he can just go far
in his lust for blood, then he cools. When the
urge comes upon him again, he goes back and finishes
the job. But why forty hours after a day and
a night. I suppose he's got asleep. Blunt was a fool,

(23:47):
Chadwick thought, a busy body and a fool, not even
a good sheriff. The car swung past houseman's woods. When
another fork appeared, he swung into it. Now you're going
in a circle, I know. Chadwick did not say that
a strange compulsion was guiding his movements. When you were
in Chicago, did you run into a case of this kind.

(24:10):
The sheriff seemed to be talking only to pass the time.
No know anything about fingerprints. I neerber Tillian discovered them.
How about ballistics, Chadwick shook his head. Most premeditary criminals
don't use guns anymore. They used too much noise, and

(24:30):
bullets can be traced. They prefer a knife. Knives can
be traced too, Chadwick said, I suppose so, Blunt said,
But I pretty well exhaust the field. There's the garrote.
Chadwick's words were automatic. Oh, yes, the garrote. But I'd
hardly call that a weapon, would you? Yes, I would,

(24:52):
Chadwick said, goes back to the fifteenth century in Spain.
It was a method of injuring the spinal cord at
the base of the brain. I didn't know that. Have
you done much reading along those lines? It used to
be my hobby, Chadwick said. Blunt expelled a mouthful smoke.
Where are we? Oh? Yes, the old Lake Virginia road.

(25:14):
It comes to the pit from the other side, Chadwick said,
and nobody uses it any more. The road was deep rutted,
and the willows along the narrow shoulders pressed close. Presently,
the forlorn waste land that was a pit opened before them.
It was a different view than Blunt was accustomed to seeing.
From this angle of the loneliness of the place was
almost pronounced. The piles of rock were larger, and the

(25:37):
black water left only a thin quarter for the car
to pass. Then this two ended, and Blunt understood why
the road was no longer used. It should be posted
that end, he thought. Chadwick stopped the car. He got out,
and like an autumn body, stiff muscles on flecks, began
to pace slowly along the water's edge. His gate was

(25:59):
shambling uneven. He stared straight ahead with all the fixed
intensity of a sleepwalker. Quietly, Blunt began to follow a
few steps behind, and now it seemed like Chadwick's destination.
Looked up an ugly cairn of black boulders, fashioned by
nature into a grottolike structure, with a jagged opening on
one side and a roof formed by an uptilted rock slap. Suddenly,

(26:23):
with a hoarse cry, Chadwick stopped and turned over. There,
he cried, behind you, back of that rock, even as
Blunt spun around in obedience to the command. He realized
his mistake, but before he could move a rope and circle.
His throat twisted tight with lightning rapidity and choked off
his webpipe the gurroat. He jerked both hands upward in

(26:46):
vain effort to tear it away. His throat constricted as
his breath was shut off. With a wooden fulcrum turning
exerting double strength, he felt his senses beginning to leave
him blackness. Rise up to shout his visions. His legs buckled,
but with a final lunge born of desperation, his right
hand reached down and grasped it. Halstered revolver, he clawed

(27:10):
the weapon free, twisted his body sideway, spun the gun
barrel down and back, and fired. The shot echoed across
the pit behind him. Chadwick uttered a low cry and
released his grip. The goarroat fell free, blunt, swiveled, brought
back his left arm, and delivered a final blow. Chadwick
fell almost at the opening of the cairn. In that opening,

(27:33):
a third figure now became visible, the girl, bound hand
and foot, her mouth gagged with a water of cloth.
The sheriff gave a sigh of relief as he saw
that she was still alive and minutes later, he assured
himself that Emily Hunter was unharmed. He carried her across
to the cart and lifted her gently into the seat.
Take it easy, miss, he said, I'll have you out

(27:54):
of here. In a moment with Chadwick, he was not
so gentle. He saw that his bulk had struck the
other man's thigh, and, although not serious, was completely incapacitating. Nevertheless,
he snapped on handcuffs and half dragged him to the car.
He turned the car around and headed up the Virginia Road.
At the fork, he swung left toward Chaska. You've been

(28:17):
a busy man, he said to Chadwick, and you'll pay
one way or another, even though you didn't know what
you were doing. The Return of Andrew Bentley by August
tur Lef and Mark Shorer. It is with considerable hesitation

(28:38):
that I hear chronicle the strange incidents which marked my
short stay at the Old Wilder Homestead on the banks
of the Wisconsin River, not far from the rustic village
of Sackbury. Our reluctance is not entirely dispelled by the
conviction that some record of these events should emphatically be
made only to stop the circulation of unfound rumors which

(29:01):
have come into being since my departure from the vicinity.
The singular chain of events began with a peremptory letter
from my aging uncle Amos Wilder, ordering me to appear
at the homestead, where he was then living with a
housekeeper and a caretaker. Communications from my uncle Amos were
not only exceedingly rare, but usually tinged with biting and

(29:23):
withering comments about my profession of letters, which he held
in great scorn. Previous to this note, we had not
seen each other for over four years. His curt note
hinted that there was something of vital importance to both
of us which he wished coould take up with me,
and though I had no inkling of what this might be,

(29:43):
I did not hesitate to go. The old house was
not large. It stood well back in the rambling grounds,
its white surface modeled by the shadows of leafy branches.
In the warm sunlight of the day on which I arrived,
green shutters crowded upon the window, and the door was
tightly closed, despite that they somnolent warmth. The river was

(30:05):
cerelian and silver in the immediate background, and farther beyond
the bluffs on the other side of the river, rose
from behind the trees and were lost in the blue
haze of distance. To the north and south, my uncle
had grown incredibly old, and now hobbled about with the
aid of a cane. On the morning of my arrival,
he was dressed in a long, ragged black robe that

(30:27):
trailed along the floor. Beneath this garment, he wore a
threadbare black jersey and a pair of shabby trousers. His
hair was uncomed, and on his chin was a rough
beard masking his thin, sardonic mouth. His eyes, however, had
lost none of their fire, and I felt his disapproval
of me as clearly as evil. His expression was that

(30:48):
of a man whose face with an unpleasant but necessary task.
At last, after a rude scrutiny, he began to speak,
having first made certain that no one lurked with an
ear shot. It's hardly necessary for me to say. I'm
not too certain I've done a wise thing in choosing you,
he began. I've always considered you somewhat of a milk sop,

(31:10):
and you've done nothing to change my opinion. He watched
my face closely as he spoke to the detect any
resentment that I might feel, But I had heard this
kind of speech from him too often before to feel
any act of anger. He sensed this, apparently, for he
went on abruptly. I'm going to leave everything I've got
to you, but there will be a condition. You have

(31:31):
to spend most of your time here, make this your home,
of course, and they are one or two other small
things you'll have to see too. Mind, I'm not putting
anything in my will. I want only your word. Do
you think you can give it? Think you can say
yes to my terms? He paused, and I said, I

(31:54):
see no reason why I shouldn't if you can guarantee
that your terms won't interfere with my writing. My uncle
smiled and shook his head as if an exasperation. Nothing
is easier, he replied, curtly, your time for writing will
be virtually unlimited. What do you want me to do,
I asked, spend most of your time here, as I

(32:17):
said before, Let no day go by during which you.
Then I examine the vault behind the house. My body
will lie there and the vault will be sealed. I
want to know that I can depend upon you to
prevent anything from entering that vault. If at any time
you discover that some one has been tampering, you will
find written instructions for your further procedure at my library desk.

(32:41):
Will you promise me to attend to these things without
too much curiosity concerning them? I promised, without the slightest hesitation,
though there were perplexing thoughts crowning upon my mind. Amys
Walder turned away, his eyes glittering. Then he looked through
the window directly opposite me, and began to chuckle in

(33:02):
a curiously guttural tone. At last, he said, his eyes
fixed upon a patch of blue sky beyond the tree
near the window. Good, I'll block him, Yet, Amos Wylder
is still a match for you. Do you hear Andrew
with his words, my portenda had no means of knowing,
for he turned abruptly to me and said, in his

(33:23):
clipped curtway, you must go now, Ellie. I shall not
see you again. But that he left the room, and
as if by magic, old Jacob Kinney, the caretaker, appeared
to show me from the grounds, his face, regarding me
with apologetic eyes, from the doorway through which his master
had so abruptly vanished. But a moment before my uncle's

(33:44):
strange words puzzled me, and it occurred to me that
the old man was losing his mind. That I then
did him an injustice, as subsequently learned, but at the
time all evidence pointed to mental derangement. I finally contented
myself with this explanation, though it did not account for
the old man's obvious rationality during most of the conversation.

(34:07):
Two points struck me. My uncle had put particular stress
upon the suggestion that something might enterre his vault. And secondly,
what was the meaning of his last words? And to
whom was my uncle refermed when he said I'll block
him yet? And amos Wylders still a match for you?
Do you hear? Andrew? Conjecture, however, was futile, for since

(34:29):
I knew very little of my uncle's personal affairs, any
guesses I might have made as to his obscure references,
if indeed he was not losing his mind, would be fruitless.
I left the Old Homes said that day in May,
only to find myself back there again within forty eight hours.
Summoned by Thomas Weatherbey of sac Prairie, my uncle's solicitor,

(34:50):
whose short telegram apprising me of Amos Wylder's death reached
me within three hours of my return to the Saint
Louis apartment which Sir me as my temporary home. My
shock at the news of his sudden death was heightened
when I learned that the circumstances surrounding his decease indicated suicide.

(35:11):
Whether be told me the circumstances of my uncle's singular death,
it appeared that Jacob Kinney had found the old man
in the very room in which he and I had
discussed his wishes only a day before. He was seated
at the table, apparently asleep. One hand still grasped a pen,
and before lay a sheet of notepaper upon which he

(35:33):
had written my name and address, nothing more. It was
presumed at first that he had had a heart attack,
but a medical examination had brought forth a suspicion that
the old man had made away with himself by taking
an overdose of verenal. There was, however, considerable reluctance to
presume suicide, for an overdose of verenal might just as

(35:56):
likely be accident as suicide. Eventually, a corner jury decided
that my uncle had met his death by accident. But
from the first I was convinced that Amos Wilder had
killed himself. In the light of subsequent events and of
his own cryptic words to me, I shall not see
you again, my suspicion was I feel justified, though no

(36:17):
definite and conclusive evidence emerged. My uncle was buried as
he had wished, and the long disused family vault behind
the house, and the vault was sealed from the outside
with due ceremony and in the presence of witnesses. The
reading of the will was a short affair for accepting
bequests made to the housekeeper and caretaker, I inherited everything.

(36:40):
My living was thus assured, and as my uncle had said,
I found the future holding many hours of leisure and
which to pursue letters. And yet, despite the apparent rosiness
of the outlook, there was from the first a peculiar
restraint upon my living in the old homestead. It was
indefinable and strange, and numerous incidents occurred to supplement this

(37:02):
odd impression. First, Old Jacob Kinney wanted to leave. With
great effort, I persuaded him to stay, and dragged from
him his reason for wanting to go. There have been
mighty strange things are going on about this house, mister Wilder,
all the time your uncle was alive, and I'm afraid
things will be going on again. After a bit more

(37:24):
than that cryptic utterance, I could not get out of him.
I took the liberty shortly after to repeat Kenny's words
to the housekeeper, missus Selden. The startled expression that passed
over her countenance did not escape me, and her immediate
assurance that Jake Kinney was in his dotage did not
entirely reassure me. Then there was a daily function of

(37:45):
examining the seal on the vault. The absurdity of my
uncle's requests began to grow on me, and my task,
trivial as it was, became daily more irritating. Yet having
given my promise, I could do no more than fulfill it.
On the third night following my uncle's interment, my sleep
was troubled to a recurrent dream which gave me no

(38:06):
little thought when I remembered its persistence. On the following day,
I dreamed that my uncle Amos Diod before me, class
as I had last seen him on the visit, just
preceding his strange death. He regarded me with his beady eyes,
and then abruptly said, in a mournful and yet urgent voice,
you must bring Burkhart back here. He forgot to protect

(38:28):
me against them. You must get him to do so.
If he will not, then see those books on the
second shlf of the seventh compartment of my library. This
dream was repeated several times and had a perfectly logical basis,
which was briefly this My uncle was buried by Father Burkhart,
the sac Prairie parish priest, who was not satisfied with

(38:51):
the findings of the coroner's jury, and consequently, in the
belief that Amos Walder had killed himself, had refused to
bless the grave of a suicide. Yet what the dream
shape of the night before had obviously meant when he
spoke of what Father Burkhart had forgotten to do, was
the blessing of the grave. I spent some time mulling
over the solution of the dream, and at length went

(39:13):
to see the priest. My efforts, however, were futile. The
old man explained his attitude with great patience, and I
was forced to agree with him. On the following night,
the dream recurred, and in consequence came a visit to
Father Burkhart, which had already failed to achieve the desired effect.
I turned, impelled largely by curiosity, to the books on

(39:36):
the second shelf of the seventh compartment, indicated by the
dream figure of my uncle. From the moment that I
opened the first of those books, the entire complexion of
the occurrences at the homestead changed inexplicably, and I found
myself involved in a chain of incidents, the singularity of
which continues to impress me even as I write at

(39:56):
this late date. Where the books on the second shelf
the seventh compartment in my dead uncle's library were books
on black magic, books long out of print and apparently
centuries old. For many of them, the print had faded
almost to illegibility. The Latin in which most of the
books were written was not easily translated, but fortunately it

(40:19):
was not necessary for me to search long for the
portions indicated by my uncle, for in each book paragraphs
were marked for my attention. The subjects of the marked
portions were strangely similar. After some difficulty, I succeeded in
translating the first indicated paragraph to catch my eye for
protection from things that walk in the night. It read

(40:42):
there are many things stalking abroad by darkness, Perhaps ghoules,
perhaps evil demons leered from an outer space by man's
own ignorance. Perhaps souls isolated in space, havenless and alone,
and yet strongly attached to the things of this earth.
Let no bodies be expos to their evil wrath. Let
there be all manner of protection for vaults and graves,

(41:05):
for the dead as well as the living. For ghules, incubi,
and succuby haunt the near places as well as the far,
and seem always to quench the fire of their unholy desire.
Take blessed water from a church and mix it with
the blood of a young babe, be it ever so
small a measure, and with this cross the grave or

(41:25):
the door of the vault thrice at the full of
the moon. If this was what my uncle Aimless desired
me to do. And yet once that the task had
evolved upon the wrong man, for I could certainly not
see myself going about collecting holy water and the blood
of a young child, and then performing ridiculous rites over
the vault with an odious mixture of the two. I

(41:47):
put the books aside and returned to my work, which
seemed suddenly more inviting than it had ever been before.
Yet what I had read disturbed me, and a suggestion
that my uncle had come to believe in the power
of black magic, perhaps even more than this, for all
I knew, was extremely distasteful to me. In consequence, my

(42:08):
writing suffered, and immediately after my supper that evening, I
went for a long walk on the river bank. A
half moon high in the sky made the countryside bright
and clear, and since the night was balmy, and made
doubly inviting by the sweet mystery of night sounds, the
gasping and gurgling of the water, the splashing of distant fish,

(42:29):
the muediate cries of night birds, particularly the peak peat
of the night hawk and the eer recalled the whipper will,
and the countless mysterious sounds from the underbrush and the
river bottoms. I extended my walk much further than I
had originally intended, so it was shortly after midnight when
I approached the house again, and the moon was close
upon the western horizon. As I came quietly along in

(42:53):
the now still night, my eye caught a movement in
the shadowy distance. The movement had come from the region
of the large old elm, which pressed close upon the house,
near the library window, and it was upon this tree
that I now fixed my eyes. I had not long
to wait, for presently a shadow detached itself from the
giant bowl and went slowly around the house toward the

(43:15):
darkness behind. I could see the figure quite clearly, though
I did not once catch sight of its face, despite
the fact that the man, for man it was, wore
no hat. He walked with a slight limp and wore
a long black cape. He was their medium height, but
quite bent so that his back was unnaturally hunched. His

(43:35):
hands were strikingly white in the fading light of the moon,
and he walked with a peculiar faffling motion despite his
obvious slimp. He passed behind the houses with me at
his heels, for I was determined to ascertain, if possible,
what design had brought him to the old house. I
lost sight of him for a few moments while I
gained the shelter of the house, but in a minute

(43:58):
I saw him again, and the gasp of astonishment, realized
that he was making directly for the vault on which
my uncle aimiously buried. I stifled an impulse to shout
at him, and made my way cautiously in the shadow
of a row of lilac bushes, towards the vault before
which he was now standing. The darkness here was intense,

(44:19):
owing to the fact that the trees from the surrounding
cops pressed close upon this corner of the state. Yet
I could see from my crouching position that the mysterious
intruder was fumbling with the seals of the vault. My
purpose in following him so closely was to collar him
while he was engaged with his seals, But this design
was now for the moment thwarted by stepping back to

(44:41):
survey the surface of the vault door. He remained standing
in silence for some while, and I almost decided it
might be just as easy to capture him in this
position when he moved forward once more. But this time
he did not fumble with the seals. Instead, he seemed
to flatten himself against the door of the vault. Then,

(45:01):
incredible as it may seem, his figure began to grow smaller,
to shrink savor his gaunt and gleaming white fingers and arms.
With a strangled gasp, I sprang forward. My memory at
this point is not quite clear. I remember seizing the
outstretched fingers of the man at the vault door, feeding
something within my grasp. Then something struck me at the

(45:24):
same moment that the intruder whirled and leaped away. I
had a fleeting impression that a second person had leaped
upon me from behind. I went down like a log.
I came to my senses not quite an hour later.
I lay for a moment recalling what had happened. I
remembered having made a snatch at the intruder's fingers and
being struck. There was an appreciable soreness of the head

(45:46):
and a sensitive bruise on my forehead when finally I
felt for it. But what must drew my attention was
the thing that I held tightly in my left hand,
the hand which I had grasped at the strangely white
fingers of the creature pressed against the door of the
Wilder vault. I had felt it within my grasp from
the first moment of consciousness, but from its roughness I

(46:09):
had taken it for a small twig caught up from
the lawn. In consequence, it was not until I reached
the security house that I looked at it. I threw
it upon the table in the dim glow of the
table lamp, and almost fell in my utter amazement. With
The thing I held in my hand was a fragment
of human bone, the unmistakable first two joints of the
little finger. This discovery loosed a flood of futile conjecture.

(46:34):
Was it, after all a man I'd surprised that the vault?
Or was it something else that my uncle was in
some way violently concerned? Now became apparent. If it had
not been entirely so before, the fact that Amos Wylder
had looked for such interruption of his repose in the
old vault led me to believe that whatever he feared

(46:55):
derived from some source in the past. Accordingly, I gave
up all conjecture for the time, and promised myself that
in the morning I would set on foot inquiries designed
to make me familiar with my secluded uncle's past life.
I was destined to receive a shock in the morning.
Determined to prosecute my curiosity concerning my uncle without loss

(47:17):
of time, I summoned Jacob Kinney, whose surliness had noticeably
increased during the few days I had been at the
old Wilder House. Instead of asking directly about my uncle,
I began with a short account of the figure I
had seen outside the preceding night. I was out quite
late last night, Jake, I began, and when I came
home I noticed a stranger on the grounds. Kinney's eyebrows

(47:40):
shot up and undisguised curiosity, But he said nothing, though
he began to exhibit signs of uneasiness, which did not
escape my notice. He was about five feet tall, I
would say, and wore no hat. I went on. He
wore a long black cape and walked with a slight limp.
Abrupt Kenny came to his feet, his eyes wide with fear.

(48:03):
What's that you say? He demanded hoarsely, walked to the limp,
wore a cape. I nodded and would have continued my
narrative had not Kenny crowded my God, he exclaimed, Andrew
Bentley's back. Who's Andrew Bentley? I asked, But Kenny did
not hear. He had whirled abruptly and run from the

(48:25):
room as fast as his feeble legs would allow him
to go. My astonishment knew no bounds, nor did subsequent
events in any way lessen it. For Jacob Kinney ran
not only from the house but from the grounds, and
his flight was climax shortly after by the appearance of
obegrimed youth, representing himself as the old man's nephew, who
came for Uncle Jake's things from him. I learned that

(48:47):
Kinny was leaving his position at once and would forfeit
any wages do him, plus any amount I thought fit
to recompense me for his precepitous flight. Kenney's unaccountable action
served only to sharpen my already keen interest, and I
descended upon Missus Selden posthaste. But the information which she

(49:09):
was able to offer me was meager. Indeed, Andrew Bentley
had arrived in the neighborhood only a few years back.
He and my uncle had immediately become friends, and a friendship,
despite an appearance of strain, had ended only when Bentley
mysteriously disappeared about a year ago. She come from our
description of the figure had seen as that of Bentley.
Missus Seldon, too was inexplicably agitated, and when I sought

(49:33):
to probe for some source of this agitation. She said
only that there were some very strange stories extant about Bentley,
and about my uncle as well, and that most of
the people in the neighborhood had even relieved of a
great fear when Bentley disappeared from the farm adjoining the
Wilder estate. This farm, which he had inhabited for the
years of his residence but had not worked, and had

(49:55):
yet always managed to exist without trouble, was now uninhabited. This,
together with a passing hint that Thomas Weatherby might be
able to add something, was a sum of what missus
Selden knew. I lost no time in telephoning Weatherby and
making an appointment for that afternoon. On the way to
the attorney's office, I had an ample time to think over
the events of the last ten days. That it was

(50:18):
Andrew Bentley whom my uncle had referred to when he
spoke so cryptically with me before his death. I had
no longer any doubt. Evidently then he too feared his
strange neighbor. But how he hoped to thwart in the
attempt that Bentley might make to get the body? For
what reason he might want it, I could not guess
with black magic was beyond my comprehension. Thomas Weatherby was

(50:42):
a short and rather insignificant man, but his attitude was
conducive to business, and he made clear to me that
he had only a limited time at my disposal. I
came directly to the matter of Andrew Bentley. Andrew Bentley,
began Weatherby with some reluctance, was a man with whom
I had no dealings, with whom I cared to have none.

(51:03):
I've seldom met anyone whose mere presence was so innately evil.
Your uncle took up with him, it is true, but
I believe regretted it to the end of his days.
What exactly was wrong with Bentley? I cut in whether
be smiled grimly, regarded me speculatively for a moment or two,
and said Bentley was an avowed sorcerer. Oh come, I said,

(51:28):
that sort of thing isn't believed in anymore. But horrible
suspicion began to grow in my mind. Perhaps not generally,
replied Weatherby at once, but I can assure you that
most of us around here believe in the power of
black magic. After even so short an acquaintance as ours
with Andrew Bentley. Consider for a moment there you has

(51:48):
spent the greater part of your life in a modern city,
away from the countryside where such beliefs flourish wilder. He
stopped an abrupt gesture and took a portfolio from a cabinet.
From this he took a photograph, looked at it with
a slight curl of disgust in his lips, and passed
it over to me. It was a snapshot, apparently of

(52:09):
Andrew Bentley, and it had been taken evidently at considerable
risk after sunset. For the general appearance of the picture
led me to assume that its vagueness was caused by
the haziness of dusk, a supposition which whether it be confirmed.
The figure, however, was quite clear, save for blurred arms,
which had evidently been moving during the exposure, and for

(52:30):
the head. The view had been taken from the side
and showed Andrew Bentley, certainly identified for me by the
longkapy war, standing as if in conversation with someone. Yet
it struck me as strange that Bentley could have stood
quietly during the exposure with no incentive to do so,
and I commented upon it at once whether be looked

(52:52):
at me queerly wilder, he said, there was another person there,
or should I say thing, And this thing was directly
in line with the lens, for he was standing very
close to Bentley. And yet there is nothing on the snapshot,
nor is there any evidence on the exposed negative itself
that anyone stood there. Where as you can see, the

(53:14):
landscape isn't broken. It was as he said. But this
other person I put in, he was seen, and yet
does not appear. Apparently the camera was out of focus
or the film was effective. On the contrary, there are
logical explanations for the non appearance of something on a film.
You can't photograph a dream, and you can't photograph something

(53:36):
that has no material form. I say material advisedly, even
though our own eyes give that thing of physical being.
What do you mean, Father Burkehart would call it a familiar,
he said, clipping his words. A familiar, in case you
don't know, is an evil spirit summoned by a sorcerer
to wait upon his desires. That tall, gaunt man was

(54:01):
never seen by day, always by night, and never without Bentley.
I can give you no more of my time now,
but if you can bring yourself to accept what I
have to say at face value. I'll be glad to
see you again. My interview with Thomas Weatherby left me
considerably shaken, and I found myself discarding all my previously

(54:22):
formed beliefs regarding black magic. I went immediately to my
late uncle Storr books and began to read through them
for further information, in the hope that something I might
learn would enable me to meet Andrew Bentley on more
equal footing, should he choose to call. I read until
far into the night, and what inconsimable knowledge I assimilated

(54:44):
lingers clearly in my mind as I write, I read
of age old horror summoned from the abyss by the
ignorance of men, of cosmic ghouls that roam the other
in search of prey, and of countless things that walk
by night. There were many legends, familiars, ghastly demons called
forth from the depth at the whims of long dead sorcerers,

(55:08):
and it was significant that each legend had been heavily
scored along the margins, and in one case the name
Andrew Bentley was written in my uncle's hand. In another place,
my uncle had written, we are fools to play with
powers of whose scope even the wisest of us has
no knowledge. It was at this point that it occurred
to me that my uncle had left a letter of

(55:30):
sealed instructions for me in case the vault was tampered with.
This letter was to be in the library desk, where
I found it with little trouble, a long, legal looking
envelope with my name inscribed very formally. The handwriting was
undoubtedly my uncle's, and the letter within was the final
thing that finally dispelled all doubt from my mind as

(55:50):
to the reality of the sorcery that had been and
was still being practiced near the Wilder homestead. For it
made clear what had happened between my uncle and Andrew
Bentley and that other. It read, my dear Ellis, and
indeed they have come for me, as they must have.
If you read this, there is but one thing you

(56:12):
can do. Bentley's body must be found and utterly destroyed.
Surely there cannot be much left of it now. Perhaps
you have seen him in the night when he walks,
as I have. He is not alive. I know because
I killed him a year ago, stabbed him with your
grandfather's hunting knife, which must yet lie in his black skeleton.

(56:35):
I think both Burkhart and Weatherby suspected that I aided
Bentley to his black rights. But that was long before
I dreamed o what depth of evil lurked in his soul?
And when I began to haunt him, so when he
brought forward that other, that hellish thing he had conjured
up from the nethermost places of evil, could I do
otherwise and rid myself of his evil presence? My mind

(56:57):
was at stake, and yes, my body. When you read this,
only my body's at stake, for they want it. Conceive
of you can the ghastly irony of my lifeless body
given an awful new existence by being inhabited by Bentley's
familiar the body Betley's body I put in the vault,

(57:17):
but that other removed it and hid it somewhere on
the grounds. I have not been able to find it,
and this past year has been a living hell for me.
They have hounded me nightly, and though I can protect
myself from them, I cannot stop them from appearing to
taunt me. And when I am dead, my protection must
come from you. But I hope that Burkhardt will have
closed his eyes and blessed the vault, for this I

(57:40):
think will be strong enough to keep them away. And
yet I cannot tell. And perhaps even this is being
read too late, for once they have my body, destroy
me too, but Bentley's remains by fire. Signed Amos Walder.
I put down this letter except from moment in silence,

(58:01):
but withouts crowded upon My mind were interrupted by an
odd sound from outside the window, a sound that was
unnaturally striking in the still night. I glanced at my watch.
It was one o'clock in the morning. Then I turned
out the small reading lamp and quietly went towards the window,
immediately beyond which stood the giant elm beneath which was

(58:22):
on the previous night I had seen the ghostly figure
of Andrew Bentley, for since he had been killed a
year before, what I had seen could have been none
other than his specter. Then a thought struck me that
paralyzed me with horror. Suppose I had been struck by
that other. It seemed to me that the blow which

(58:44):
had knocked me out had been struck from behind. At
the same instant, my eyes caught sight of the faintest
movement beyond the window. The moon hung in the hazy
sky and throw a faint illumination about the tree, despite
the fairly heavy shadow of its overhanging limbs. There was
a man pressed close to the bowl of the tree,
and even as I looked, another seemed to rise up

(59:04):
out of the ground at his side, and the second
man was Andrew Bentley. I looked again at the first
and saw a tall gun figure with malevolent red eyes,
through whom I could see the line of moonlight and
shadow on the lawn beyond the tree. They stood there
together for only a moment, and then went quickly around
the house toward the vault. From that instant, events moved

(59:27):
rapidly to a climax. My eyes fixed themselves upon that
place in the ground from which the figure of Andrew
Bentley had sprung, and saw there an opening in the
trunk of the old tree for the almost hollow in
its bowl of the remains of Andrew Bentley. Small wonder
that my uncle had been haunted by the presence of
the man he had killed when his remains were hidden

(59:49):
in the tree near the library window. But I stood
there for only a fraction of a minute. Then I
went quickly to the telephone, and after an agonizingly lay
got weather beyond the wire out to come out at once,
Hinting enough of what was happening to gain his assent,
I suggested also to bring Father Burkhart along, and this
he promised to do. Then I slipped silently from the

(01:00:12):
house into the shadowy garden. I think the sight of
those two unholy figures hovering about the door of the
vault was too much for me, for I launched myself
at them, heedless of my danger. But realization came almost instantly,
for Andrew Bentley did not even turn at my appearance. Instead,
the other looked abruptly around, fixed me with its red

(01:00:34):
and fiery eyes, smiled wickedly so his leathery face was
weirdly creased, and leisurely watched my approach. Instinct, I believe,
whirled me about and set me flying from the garden.
The thing was somewhat surprised at my abrupt bolt, and
this momentary hesitation on its part, I continued to believe
as responsible for my being alive to write this, for

(01:00:57):
I knew that I was flying from my life, and
I ran with the utmost speed of which I was capable.
A fleeting glance showed me that the thing loped after me,
a weirdly flaffing shape, seeming to come with the wind
in the moonlight night, and struck shuddery horror into my heart.
I made for the river because I remembered reading and
one of my uncle's old books as certain familiars could

(01:01:19):
not cross water unless accompanied by those whose sorcery had
summoned them to earth. I leaped into the cold water, tense,
with a hope that the thing behind could not follow.
It could not. I saw it raging up and down
along the river bank. Impotent and furious at my fortunate escape,
Why I kept myself afloat in mid current. The current

(01:01:40):
carried me rapidly downstream, and I kept my eyes fixed
upon the thing I had eluded, until it turned and
sped back towards vault. Only when I was completely out
of its sight did I make for the bank once more.
I ran madly down the road along which Weatherby and
the priest must come, flinging off some of my wet
clothes as I went. What was happening at the vault

(01:02:01):
I did not know at the moment. My only thought
was temporary safety from the thing whose power I had
so thoughtlessly challenged. I had gone perhaps half a mile
beyond the estate when the headlights of Weatherbe's car swept
around a curve and outlined me in the road. The
car ground When emergency stopped and Weatherbe's voice called out.
I jumped into the car and explained as rapidly as

(01:02:22):
I could what had happened. Father Burkhart regarded me quizzically,
half smiling. You've had a narrow escape, my boy, he said,
a very narrow escape. And if only we can get
to the vault before they succeed in their evil design,
such a fate is too harsh a punishment, even for
the sins of Amos Wylder. He shuddered as he spoke,

(01:02:42):
and Weetherby's face was grim. None of us wasted a moment.
When the car came to stop near the house, Father Burkehart,
despite his age, led the way, marchining us behind him,
For he went ahead with a crucifix extended, but even
as he faltered at the half flying sight that met
her eyes when we rounded the house and came into
the garden, for the vault was opened and from it

(01:03:04):
emerged the skeletal Bentley and is familiar and between them,
they dragged the lifeless body of my uncle Amos. Burkhart's
hesitation hour was only momentary, for he ran forward immediately,
not would weather Be an eye far behind. At the
same moment, the two of the vault caust sight of

(01:03:25):
us with a shrill scream. The tall gump thing loosed
his hold of the corpse and launched himself forward, but
the crucifix served the swell, with the thing fell shuddering
away from it. Father Burke Cahart immediately pressed his advantage, and,
following his sharp command whether Be and Eye, rushed at Bentley,
who had up to this moment remained beside the corpse,

(01:03:46):
still keeping hold of one dead arm. But at our advance,
Bentley wavered a moment and then turned and took flight,
dodging nimbly past us and running for the house. We
were at his heels and saw him when he vanished
in the deep shadows of the tree near the library window.
For the Borkhart presently made his appearance, walking wearily, for

(01:04:07):
the thing was still I bay, but eager to attack.
Find the bones, directed the priest. They're in the tree,
I suspect. I bent obediently, and presently my searching hand
encountered a scooped out hollow in the trunk, just above
the opening at the base of the tree. In this
lay the skeleton of Andrew Bentley, together with the weapon

(01:04:27):
by which he had met his death, And here it
had lain ever since the thing Bentley had summoned from
the depth had removed the Sorcerer's body from the old vault.
Small wonder that had never been discovered. While Burkehart stood
protectively close while Weatherby and I prepared a pirate to
consume the remains of the Sorcerer. But what can we

(01:04:48):
do about that? I asked, once, pointing to the Familiar
that now raged and baffled fury just beyond us. We
need not bother about that, said the priest. He is
held to earth only by the body of the man
who summoned him from below. When once that body's destroyed,
he must return. That's why they were after your uncle's body.

(01:05:12):
If the Familiar could inhabit a body fresh from a
new grave, he could walk by day as was by night,
and need have no fear of having to return. Once
or twice the thing did rush at us, but each
time his charge was arrested by the power of that crucifix,
held unfalteringly aloft by feather Brokehart, and each time the

(01:05:32):
thing shrank away wailing. It was over at last, but
not without a short period of ghastly doubt. The remains
of Andrew Bentley were reduced to ashes, utterly destroyed, and
yet the thing Bentley had called from the outside lingered
beyond us, strangely quiet, now regarding us malevolently. I don't understand,

(01:05:52):
admitted Father Burkhart. At last, now that Bentley's ashes alone remained,
the thing should go back into the depths. But if
the priest did not understand, I did. Abruptly I ran
to the library window, raised as far as it would go,
and scrambled into the room. In a moment I emerged
bearing the fragment of Bentley's little finger, which I had

(01:06:13):
snatched from the skeletal hand the night before. I threw
it into the flames, already dying down in the shadow
of the tree. In a moment had caught fire. At
the same time, the thing hovering near us gave us
a chilling scream of pain and fury, pushing madly towards us,
and then abruptly shot into space and vanish, like the
last fragment of an unholy, ghastly nightmare. Requisiat and patche

(01:06:38):
said Father Berkhart, softly, looking at the ashes at our feet,
But the dubious expression in his eyes conferred his belief
that for the now released spirit of Andrew Bentley, a
greater and longer torture had just begun

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.css-14f5ked{margin:0;word-break:break-word;display:-webkit-box;-webkit-box-orient:vertical;box-orient:vertical;-webkit-line-clamp:2;overflow:hidden;}The Chadwick Pit and Another Gruesome Story | Podcast