“This last visit was in many respects the most satisfactory, and indeed it witnessed a triumph in my career as an Egyptologist that would be a crowning achievement, were it not for—but we won’t speak of that—yet.
“I wonder, Madden, if you know anything about the ancient Egyptian religious ceremonies and forms of worship? Anyway, I may tell you that the Nile dwellers, as they were called, recognized as their supreme deity, Osiris, lord of the underworld. By some he has been identified with the Sun and, with the forty assessors of the dead, he was supposed to have judged the souls brought before him by Horus in the double halls of truth, after their good and evil deeds had been weighed by Anubis.
“The Egyptians reverenced Osiris with as devout worship as the Chinese give to Buddha, and the high priests of Osiris were regarded with almost as much awe as the deity himself.
“In all our studies and investigations, however, we have never been able actually to identify Osiris, but it is now generally conceded that he was believed to have lived on earth at one time and that it was only after his death that he assumed deific prerogatives. In this respect the modern Christian theology may be said to resemble the more ancient form to some extent.
“Osiris was pictured on many of the tablets as a creature with the head of a bull, though there is some disagreement on this score. In any event, his tomb was said to exist near Heliopolis, and it was to investigate this tradition that I made my last trip to Egypt.”
Sir Richard paused to relight his cigar and listened to the storm which raged without. Again he gave that hasty, apprehensive glance about him, then proceeded:
“It would be impossible for me to explain to you, a layman, my inordinate joy at finding—by what means and after what tedious labor, I won’t stop to tell now—a deserted tomb which I knew, from certain hieroglyphic markings I found, was the very one of which I had been in search for the best part of half a year.
“Understand that this whole tradition of the tomb of Osiris was regarded by my fellow scientists as a myth, and if it had been publicly known that I was giving it sufficient credence to spend a lot of time and money searching for it I should have been looked upon as a madman and laughed out of the societies. This may enable you to appreciate more fully my sensations on actually locating at least the tomb. What I should find within, I hardly dared conjecture!
“The tomb of a God! Can you imagine it, Madden?
“And yet, if I had only stopped there! If only I had been content to pause with the knowledge I already possessed, without proceeding further and desecrating with sacrilegious hands that lonely sarcophagus in the desert!
“How I succeeded in penetrating this tomb, of the horrors of bats and crawling things that failed to stop me—of the almost supernatural awe that came upon me—I can not pause to tell. It is enough to say that I stood at last beside the tremendous coffin of stone, trembling from an unknown dread. And, as I stood there, something white fluttered by me and up through the opening into the outer air. A sacred Ibis—but how it had penetrated there and how it had lived, I can not say.
“Pour out another brandy, Madden—and throw that other log on the fire, too, if you don’t mind. My, how the wind blows! Did you speak?... Pardon me—I’m nervous tonight as I said before, very nervous.... Where was I? Oh, yes—
“That great sarcophagus stood before me, and on it I saw inscribed the sacred scarabæus and the feather of truth, while in the center was the word—the one, wonderful name—‘Heseri’—which is the Egyptian for Osiris!
“Insatiable curiosity now took the place of the reverential awe that should have possessed me, and with vandal hands I forced the stone lid from the casket. One glance I had of a great, bovine face, a _living_ face, whose eyes looked into the depths of my soul—and then I fled as though all the devils of Amenti were at my heels....
“That is all Madden, except that I am nervous—fearfully so. It is so unlike me. You know how small a part fear has played in my life. I have faced the dreaded simoon; I have been lost among savage tribes, I have confronted death in a hundred forms—but _never_ have I felt as I do now. I tremble at a sound; my ears trick me into believing that I am always hearing some unusual noise; my appetite is failing, and I am feeling my age as I have never felt it until.... Good God! Madden! What was that sound?... Oh! _look behind you_, Madden! _Look!_...”
* * * * *
And now I come to that portion of my statement that will probably be refused credence by those who read; but, as I live, it is the truth.
As Sir Richard uttered his last words, he felt forward to his full length upon the hearth rug, even as I turned in obedience to his command. The shadows were heavy in the far corner of the spacious room, but I could see a great, bulky something that swayed there, something that was a part, and yet, seemingly, was independent, of the shadows.
I had a vision of two burning eyes and a black shining muzzle—a heavy, misshapen head. A strange, animal-like, fetid odor was in my nostrils.
I shrieked, and, turning, ran madly from the room, stumbled to the stairs and fled into the wind-swept night.
Failure to Keep Tab on Quitting Time Kills Two
Troy Hocker and Hugh Simpson, linemen for the Oklahoma Gas and Electric Company, were repairing wires on top of a pole in Oklahoma one afternoon recently. As they worked, they engaged in banter. It was nearly five o’clock—their quitting time—but neither looked at his watch. The engineer down at the power house saw it was ten minutes past five, time to turn on the city’s arc lights. He pulled down the switch and sent 2,300 volts out to light the city. The men up on the pole ceased their banter. Their bodies became stiff. Those on the ground laughed. This must be some new prank of the boys. Then someone noticed smoke issuing from Hocker’s shoes. Back at the power plant the amperage was fluctuating back and forth, and the engineer knew something was amiss. He threw off the current—but the men were already dead.
_A New Story by Julian Kilman, Master of Weird Fiction_
THE WELL
Jeremiah Hubbard toiled with a team of horses in a piece of ground some distance down the road from his dwelling. When it neared five o’clock in the autumn afternoon, he unwound the lines from his waist, unhooked the traces and started home with his horses.
He was a heavy man, a bit under middle age, with a dish-shaped face and narrow-set eyes. He walked with vigor. One of the horses lagged a trifle, and he struck it savagely with a short whip.
They came presently to the Eldridge dwelling, abandoned and tumbled down, on the opposite side of the road. The farm was being worked on shares by a man named Simpson, who lived five miles away and drove a “tin Lizzie.” An ancient oak tree, the tremendous circumference of its trunk marred by signs of decay, reared splendid gnarled branches skyward.
These branches shaded a disused well—a well that had been the first one in Nicholas County, having been dug in the early fifties by the pioneering Eldridge family. It went forty feet straight down into the residual soil characteristic of the _locale_, but, owing to improved drainage, it had become dry. Nothing remained of the old pump-house, save the crumbling circle of stonework around the mouth, to give evidence of its one-time majesty.
A child of eight ran from the rear of the premises. Hubbard frowned and stopped his team.
“You better keep away from there,” he growled, “or you’ll fall into the well.”
The girl glanced at him impishly.
“You an’ Missus Hubbard don’t speak to each other, do you?”
Hubbard’s face went black. His whip sprang out and caught the girl about the legs. She yelped and ran.
An eighth of a mile farther along the road Hubbard turned in and drove his team to a big barn. He fed his stock. It was after six when he entered the house. This was a structure that, by comparison with the gigantic barn in the rear, seemed pigmy-like.
A sallow, flat-chested woman, with a wisp of hair twisted into a knot, took from Hubbard the two pails of milk he carried. She set them in the kitchen. The two exchanged no words.
Hubbard strode to the washstand, his boots thumping the floor, and performed his ablutions. He rumpled his hair and beard, using much soap and water and blowing stertorously. In the dining-room a girl of twelve sat with a book. As her father came in she glanced at him timorously.
He gave no heed to her as he slumped down into a chair standing before a desk. The desk was littered with papers, among which were typewritten sheets of the sort referred to as “pleadings”; there was a title-search much bethumbed and black along the edges, where the “set-outs” had been scanned with obvious care.
The man adjusted a pair of antiquated spectacles to his dish-face. To do this he was compelled to pull the ends of the bows tight back over the ears as his nose afforded practically no bridge to support the glasses.