 8. A Ghoul's Accountant in a wilderness sunlight is noise. Darkness is a great tremendous silence accented by small and distant sound. The music of the wind in the trees is songs of loneliness, hymns of abandonment, and lays of the absence of things congenial and alive. Once a campfire lay dying in a fit of temper. A few weak flames struggled calorically among the burned out logs. Beneath a mass of angry red coals glowered and hated the world. Some hemlock sighed and sung, and a wind purred in the grass. The moon was looking through the locked branches at four impeturbable bundles of blankets which lay near the agonized campfire. The fire groaned in its last throes, but the bundles made no sign. Off in the gloomy unknown a foot fell upon a twig. The laurel leaves shivered at the stealthy passing of danger. A moment later a man crept into the spot of dim light. His skin was fiercely red and his whiskers infinitely black. He gazed at the four passive bundles and smiled a smile that curled his lips and showed yellow disordered teeth. The campfire threw up two lurid arms and quivering expired. The voices of the trees grew hoarse and frightened. The bundles were stolid. The intruder stepped softly nearer and looked at the bundles. One was shorter than the others. He regarded it for some time motionless. The hemlocks quavered nervously and the grass shook. The intruder slid to the short bundle and touched it. Then he smiled. The bundle partially upreared itself and the head of a little man appeared. Lord, he said. He found himself looking at the grin of a ghoul condemned to torment. Come, croaked the ghoul. What, said the little man? He began to feel his flesh slide to and fro on his bones as he looked into the smile. Come, croaked the ghoul. What, the little man whimpered. He grew gray and could not move his legs. The ghoul lifted a three-pronged pickerel spear and flashed it near the little man's throat. He saw menace on its points. He struggled heavily to his feet. He cast his eyes upon the remaining mummy-like bundles, but the ghoul confronted his face with a spear. Where, shivered the little man? The ghoul turned and pointed into the darkness. His countenance shone with lurid light of triumph. Go, he croaked. The little man blindly staggered in the direction indicated. The three bundles by the fire were still immovable. He tried to pierce the cloth with a glance and opened his mouth to whoop, but the spear ever threatened his face. The bundles were left far in the rear, and the little man stumbled on alone with the ghoul. Tangled thickets tripped him, saplings buffeted him, and stones turned away from his feet. Blinded and badgered, he began to swear frenziedly. A foam drifted to his mouth and his eyes glowed with a blue light. Go on, thundersly croaked the ghoul. The little man's blood turned to salt. His eaves began to decay and refused to do their office. He fell from gloom to gloom. At last a house was before them. Through a yellow-papered window shone an uncertain light. The ghoul conducted his prisoner to the uneven threshold and kicked the decrepit door. It swung groaning back, and he dragged the little man into a room. A soiled oil lamp gave a feeble light that turned the pine-board walls and furniture a dull orange. Before a table sat a wild gray man. The ghoul threw his victim upon a chair and went and stood by the man. They regarded the little man with eyes that made wheels revolve in his soul. He cast a day's glance about the room and saw vaguely that it was disheveled as from a terrific scuffle. Chairs lay shattered, and dishes in the cupboard were ground to pieces. Destruction had been present. There were moments of silence. The ghoul and the wild gray man contemplated their victim. A throw of fear passed over him, and he sank limp in his chair. His eyes swept feverishly over the faces of his tormentors. At last the ghoul spoke. Well, he said to the wild gray man. The other cleared his throat and stood up. Stranger, he said suddenly. How much is thirty-three bushels of potatoes at sixty-four and a half a bushel? The ghoul leaned forward to catch the reply. The wild gray man straightened his figure and listened. A fierce light shone on their faces. Their breaths came swiftly. The little man wriggled his legs in agony. Twenty-one, no, two, six, and quick hissed the ghoul hoarsely. Twenty-one dollars and twenty-eight cents and a half laboriously stirred the little man. The ghoul gave a tremendous howl. There, Tom Jones Durnia, he yelled. What did I tell you? Hey, ain't I right? See, didn't I tell you that? The wild gray man's body shook. He was delivered of a frightful roar. He sprang forward and kicked the little man out of the door. A ghoul's accountant by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Howard Phillips Lovecraft Ex Oblivione When the last days were upon me and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness, like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victim's body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams, I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods. Once, when the wind was soft and scented, I heard the south calling and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars. Once, when the gentle rain fell, I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth, till I reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbores and undying roses. And once, I walked through a golden valley that led to a shadowy grove and ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze. Many times, I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to trunk, sometimes disclosing the mold-stained stones of buried temples. And always, the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the little gate of bronze therein. After a while, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling place, so that I need no more crawl back to a dull world stripped of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream country from which, once it was entered, there would be no return. So, each night in sleep, I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivy-ed antique wall, though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well. Then, one night in the dream-city of Zacarion, I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and among them was law of a golden valley, and a sacred grove with temples and a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this law, I knew that it touched on the scenes I had haunted, and I, therefore, read long in the yellowed papyrus. Some of the dream-sages rode gorgeously of the wonders beyond the irrepossible gate, but others told of horror and disappointment. I knew not which to believe, yet longed more and more to cross forever into the unknown land. For doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures, and no new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the common place. So when I learned of the drug which would unlock the gate and drive me through, I resolved to take it when next I awaked. Last night, I swallowed the drug and floated dreamily into the golden valley and the shadowy groves, and when I came this time to the antique wall, I saw that the small gate of bronze was a jar. From beyond came a glue that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the tops of the barrier temples, and I drifted on songfully expectant of the glories of the land from whence I should never return. But as the gate swung wider and the sorcery of the drug and the dream pushed me through, I knew that all sights and glories were at an end. For in that new realm was neither land nor sea, but only the white void of unpeopled and limitable space. So happier than I had ever dared hope to be, I dissolved again into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which the demon life had called me for one brief and desolate hour. End of X of Livione by Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Searchers after horror haunt strange far places, for them are the catacombs of Tome and the carbon mausolea of the nightmare countries. They climb to the moonlit towers of ruined brine castles and falter down black cobweb steps beneath the scattered stones of forgotten cities in Asia, the haunted wood in the desolate mountain or other shrines, and they linger around the sinister monoliths of uninhabited islands. But the true epicure of the terrible, to whom a new thrill of unalterable gasliness is the chief and unjustification of existence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhouses of backwoods New England, for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, and grotesqueness, and ignorance combine to form the perfection of the hideous. Most horrible of all the sights are the little unpainted wooden houses remote from traveled ways, usually squatted upon some damp grassy slope or leaning against some gigantic outcropping of rock. Two hundred years and more they have leaned or squatted there, while the vines have crawled and the trees have swelled and spread. They are almost hidden now in wall-less luxuriances of green and guardian shrouds of shadow, but the small pained windows still stare shockingly, as if blinking through a lethal stupor, which wards off madness by dulling the memory of unalterable things. In such houses have dwelt generations of strange people whose like the world has never seen. Seized with a gloomy and fanatical belief which exiled them from their kind, their ancestors sought the wilderness for freedom. There are sky ends of a conquering race indeed flourished free from the restrictions of their fellows, but cowered in an appalling slavery to the dismal phantasms of their own minds. Divorced from the enlightenment of civilization, the strength of these Puritans turned into singular channels, and in their isolation morbid self-repression and struggle for life with relentless nature, there came to them dark, furtive traits from the prehistoric depths of their cold northern heritage. By necessity practical and by philosophy stern, these folks were not beautiful in their sins. Airing as all mortals must, they were forced by their rigid code to seek concealment above all else, so that they came to use less and less taste in what they concealed. Only this silent, sleepy, staring houses in the backwoods can tell all that has lain hidden since the early days, and they are not communicative, being loath to shake off the drowsiness which helps them forget. Sometimes one feels that it would be merciful to tear down these houses, for they must often dream. It was to a time-battered edifice of this description that I was driven one afternoon in November 1896 by a rain of such chilling copiousness that any shelter was preferable to exposure. I had been travelling for some time amongst the people of the Miskatonic Valley in quest of certain genealogical data, and from the remote, devious and problematical nature of my course had deemed it convenient to employ a bicycle despite the lateness of the season. Now I found myself in an apparently abandoned road, which I had chosen as the shortest cut to Arkham, overtaken by the storm at a point far from any town and confronted with no refuge save the antique and repellent wooden building which blinked with bleared windows from between two huge leafless elms near the foot of a rocky hill. Distant though it is from the remnant of the road, the house nonetheless impressed me unfavorably in the very moment I aspired it. Honest, wholesome structures do not stare at travellers so slyly and hauntingly, and in my genealogical researches I had encountered legends of a century before, which biased me against places of this kind. Yet the force of the elements was such as to overcome my scruples, and I did not hesitate to wheel my machine up the weedy rise to the closed door which seemed it one so suggestive and secretive. I had somehow taken it for granted that the house was abandoned, yet as I approached I was not so sure, for though the walks were indeed overgrown with weeds, they seemed to retain their nature a little too well to argue complete desertion. Therefore instead of trying the door I knocked, feeling as I did so, a trepidation I could scarcely explain. As I waited on the rough moxie rock, which served as a doorstep, I glanced at the neighboring windows and the panes of the transom above me and noticed that, although old, rattling and almost opaque with dirt, they were not broken. The building then must still be inhabited, despite its isolation in general neglect. However, my wrapping evoked no response, so after repeating the summons I tried the rusty latch and found the door unfastened. Inside was a little vestibule with walls from which the plaster was falling, and through the doorway there came a faint but peculiarly hateful odor. I entered, carrying my bicycle, and closed the door behind me. A head rose a narrow staircase flanked by a small door, probably leading to the cellar, while to the left and right were closed doors leading to rooms on the ground floor. Leaning my cycle against the wall, I opened the door at the left and crossed into a small, low-ceiling chamber, but dimly lighted by its two dusty windows and furnished in the barest and most primitive possible way. It appeared to be a kind of sitting-room, for it had a table and several chairs and an immense fireplace above which ticked an antique clock on a mantle. Books and papers were very few, and in the prevailing gloom I could not readily discern the titles, but what interested me was the uniform air of archaism as displayed in every visible detail. Most of the houses in the region I had found rich in relics of the past, but here the antiquity was curiously complete, for in all the room I could not discover a single article of definitely post-revolutionary date. Had the furnishings been less humble, the place would have been a collector's paradise. As I surveyed its quaint apartment, I felt an increase in that aversion first excited by the bleak exterior of the house, just what it was that I feared or loathed. I could by no means define, but something in the whole atmosphere seemed a redolent of unhollowed age, of unpleasant crudeness, and of secrets which should be forgotten. I felt disinclined to sit down and wondered about examining the various articles which I had noticed. The first object of my curiosity was a book, a medium-sized lying upon the table and presenting such an anteluvian aspect that I marveled at beholding it outside a museum or library. It was bound in leather with metal fittings, and it was in an excellent state of preservation, being altogether unusual sort of volume to encounter in an abode so lowly. When I opened it to the title page, my wonder grew even greater, for it provided to be nothing less rare than pig fetus account of the Congo region written in Latin from the notes of the sailor Lopez and printed in Frankfurt in 1598. I had often heard of this work, with its curious illustrations by the brothers de Bray, hence for a moment forgot my uneasiness and my desire to turn the pages before me. The engravings were indeed interesting, drawn wholly from imagination and careless descriptions, and represented negroes with white skins and Caucasian features. Nor would I soon have closed the book had not an exceedingly trivial circumstance upset my tired nerves and revived my sensation of disquiet. What annoyed me was the merely persistent way in which the volume tended to fall open of itself at plate twelve, which represented in gruesome detail a butcher's shop of the cannibal as teaks. I experienced some shame at my susceptibility to do so slight thing, but the drawing nevertheless disturbed me, especially in connection with some adjacent passages descriptive of ST Gastronomy. I had turned to a neighboring shelf and was examining its meager literary contents, an 18th century bible of pilgrims' progress of like period illustrated with grotesque woodcuts, and printed by the almanac maker Isaiah Thomas, the rotting bulk of Cotton Mathers, Magnalia, Christian Americana, and a few other books of evidently equal age, when my attention was aroused by the unmistakable sound of walking in the room overhead. At first astonished and startled, considering the lack of response to my recent knocking of the door, I immediately afterward concluded that the walker had just awakened from a sound sleep, and listened with less surprise as the footsteps sounded on the creaking stairs. The tread was heavy. It seemed to contain a curious quality of consciousness, a quality which I disliked the more because the tread was heavy. When I had entered the room I had shut the door behind me now, after a moment of silence during which the walker may have been inspecting my bicycle in the hall, I heard a fumbling of the latch and saw the panel portal swing open again. In the doorway stood a person of such singular appearance that I should have exclaimed aloud but for the restraints of good-breeding. Old, white bearded and ragged, my host possessed a countenance in physique which inspired equal wonder and respect. His height could not have been less than six feet, and despite a general air of age and poverty he was stout and powerful in proportion. His face, almost hidden by a long beard which grew high on his cheeks, seemed abnormally ruddy and less wrinkled than one might expect. While over a high forehead fell a shock of white hair, little thin by the years, his blue eyes, though a trifle bloodshot, seemed inexplicably keen and burning. But for his horrible enchemness the man would have been as distinguished looking as he was impressive. This enchemness, however, made him offensive despite his face and figure. Of what his clothing consisted, I could hardly tell, for it seemed to me no more than a mass of tatters surmounting a pair of high heavy boots and his lack of cleanliness surpassed description. The appearance of this man and the instinct of fear he inspired prepare me for something like an enmity, so that I almost shuddered through surprise in a sense of uncanny congruity when he motioned me to a chair and addressed me in a thin, weak voice full of bawling respect and ingratiating hospitality. His speech was very curious, an extreme form of Yankee dialect. I had thought long extinct, and I studied it closely, as he sat down opposite me for conversation. Catched in the rain, be ye, he greeted. Glad he was nigh of the house and hid in the sense to come right in. I calculate, I was asleep outside here, dey, ain't as young as I used to be, and I need a powerful side of naps nowadays. Traveling fur? I ain't seen many folks for long this word since they took off the Arkham stage. I replied that I was going to Arkham and apologized for my rude entry into his domicile whereupon he continued. Glad to see ye, young sir. New faces is scarce to count around here, and I ain't got much to cheer me up these days. Guess you hail from Boston, don't you? I never been there, but I can tell a town man when I see him. We had one for destick schoolmaster in 84, but he quit sudden, and no one ever heard of him since. Here the old man lapsed into a kind of chuckle and made no explanation when I questioned him. He seemed to be in an aboundingly good humor, yet to possess those eccentricities which one might guess from his grooming. For some time he rambled on with an almost feverish geniality when it struck me to ask him how he came by so rare a book as Pig-Fat as Ragnum Kongo. The effect of this volume had not left me, and I felt a certain hesitancy in speaking of it, but curiosity overmastered all the vague fears which I had steadily accumulated since my first glimpse of the house. To my relief, the question did not seem an awkward one for the old man answered freely and wobbly. Well, that african book, Captain Ebenezer Holt traded me that in 68. Hemmers was killed in the war. Something about the name Ebenezer Holt caused me to look up sharply. I had encountered it in my genealogical work, but not in any record since the revolution. I wondered if my host could help me in the task at which I was laboring, and resolved to ask him about it later on, and continued. Ebenezer was on a sale of merchantmen for years and picked up a slight of queer stuff at every port. He got this in London, I guess. He used to like to buy things at shops. I was up to his house once on the hill trading horses. When I see this book, I relish the pictures, so it gave it to me in a swap. There's a queer book here. Let me get my spectacles. The old man fumbled among his rags, producing a pair of dirty and amazingly antique glasses with small octagonal lenses and steel bows. Donning these, he reached for the volume on the table and turned the pages lovingly. Ebenezer could read a little of this, just Latin, but I can't. Had two or three school masters read me a bit. And Passion Clark, whom they say got rounded at the pond. Can you make anything out of it? I told him that I could, and translated for his benefit, a paragraph near the beginning. If I aired, he was not scholar enough to correct me, for he seemed childishly pleased at my English version. His proximity was becoming rather obnoxious, yet I saw no way to escape without offending him. I was amused at the childish fondness of this ignorant old man for the pictures in a book he could not read, and wondered how much better he could read the few books in English which adorned the room. This revelation of simplicity removed much of the ill-defined apprehension I had felt, and I smiled as my house rambled on. Queer-high pictures can set a body thinking. Take this in here and near the front. Have you ever seen trees like that with big leaves flopping over and down? And then men, and can't be niggers. They do beat all, kind of like engines I guess, even if they be in Africa. Some of these critters look like monkeys, or half monkeys and half men, but I never heard or nothing like this one. Here he pointed to a fabulous creature of the artist which one might describe as a sort of dragon with the head of an alligator. Now I'll show you the best one, now over here in the middle. The old man's speech grew a trifle thicker in his eyes, assumed a brighter glow, but his fumbling hands, though seemingly clumsier than before, were entirely adequate to their mission. The book fell open almost of its own accord, as if from frequent consultation at this place to the repellent twelfth plate showing a butcher shop amongst the Aztec cannibals. My sense of wrestlesmiths returned, though I did not exhibit it. This especially bizarre thing was that the artist had made his Africans look like white men. The limbs and quarters hanging about the walls of the shop were ghastly, while the butcher with his axe was hideously incongruous. But my host seemed to relish the view as much as I disliked it. What do you think of this? Ain't never seen the like hereabouts, eh? When I see this, I tell Jim Holt, that's something to stir you up and make your blood tickle. When I read the scripture about slaying, like the midnight's was slew, I kind of think things, but ain't got no picture of it. Here, a body can see all there is to it. I suppose to sinful, but, hey, we all born living in sin. That fellow being shot gives you quite a tickle every time I look at him. I hate to keep looking at him to see where the butcher cut off his feet. There's the head on that branch, with one arm side of it, and another arms on the side of a meat block. As the man mumbled on in his shocking ecstasy, the expression on his hairy speckled face became indescribable. But his voice sank rather than mounted. My own sensations can scarcely be recorded. All the terror I had dimly felt before rushed upon me actively and vividly, and I knew that I loathe the ancient and abhorrent creature so near me with an infinite intensity. His madness, or at least his partial perversions, and beyond dispute, he was almost whispering now, with a huskiness more terrible than a scream, and I trembled as I listened. As I said, just where are the pictures that you're thinking? Do you know, young sir, I'm right set on this in here. After I got this book off, I used to look at it a lot, especially when I'd heard Passion Clark rant in Sundays in his big wig. Once I tried something funny here, young sir, don't get scared. All I'd done was to look at that picture of four. I'd killed a sheep for market. Killing sheep was kinder and more fun after looking at it. The tone of the old man sang very low, sometimes becoming so faint that his words were hardly audible. I listened to the rain, and to the rattling of the bleared small pain windows, and marked a rumbling of approaching thunder, quite unusual for the season. Once a terrific flash and peel shook the frail house to its foundations, but the whisperer never seemed to notice it. Killing sheep was kinder and more fun, but do you know, to ain't quite satisfying. Queer how a craven gets ahold of you. And as you love the almighty young man, don't tell nobody. But I swear to God that picture began to make me hungry for victims. I couldn't raise her by. Here, sit still. What's ailing you? I didn't do nothing, only wondered how it would be if I did. They say meat makes blood and flesh, and it gives you new life. So I wondered if it would make a man live longer to as more of the same. But the whisperer never continued. The interruption was not produced by my fright, nor by the rapidly increasing storm amidst whose fury I was presently to open my eyes on a smoky solitude of blackened ruins. It was produced by a simple though somewhat unusual happening. The book lay flat between us, with the picture staring repulsively upward, as the old man whispered the words more the same. A tiny splattering impact was heard, and something showed on the yellow paper of the upturned volume. I thought of the rain of a leaky roof, but rain is not red. On the butcher's shop of the Aztee cannibals, a small red splattering glistened picturesquely, lending vividness to the horror of the engraving. The old man saw it, and stopped whispering, even before my expression of horror made it necessary. Saw it, and glanced quickly toward the door of the room he had left an hour before. I followed his glance, and beheld just above us. On the loose plaster of the ancient ceiling, a large irregular spot of wet crimson would seem to spread, even as I viewed it. I did not shriek or move, but merely shut my eyes. A moment later came the titanic thunderbolt of thunderbolts blasting that accursed house of unutterable secrets, and bringing the oblivion which alone saved my mind. End of The Picture in the House by H.P. Lovecraft This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Paul Siegel of Maynard, Massachusetts. Rattle of Bones by Robert E. Howard Landlord Ho! The shout broke the lowering silence and reverberated through the black forest with sinister echoing. This place hath a forbidding aspect, Missy Mith. Two men stood in front of the forest tavern. The building was low, long, and rambling, built of heavy logs. Its small windows were heavily barred, and the door was closed. Above the door, its sinister sign showed faintly. He cleft skull. This door swung slowly open, and a bearded face peered out. The owner of the face stepped back and motioned his guests to enter. With a grudging gesture, it seemed. A candle gleamed on a table, a flame smoldered in the fireplace. Your names? Solomon Cain said the taller man briefly. Gaston Lamont, the other spoke curtly. But what is that to you? Strangers are few in the black forest, grunted the host. Bandits, many. Sit at yonder table, and I will bring food. The two men sat down with the bearing of men who have traveled far. One was a tall gaunt man, clad in a featherless hat and somber black garments, which set off the dark pallor of his forbidding face. The other was of a different type entirely, bedecked with lace and plumes, although his finery was somewhat stained from travel. He was handsome in a bold way, and his restless eyes shifted from side to side, never still an instant. The host brought wine and food to the rough-hewn table, and then stood back in the shadows like a somber image. His features, now receding into vagueness, now luredly etched in the firelight as it leapt and flickered, were masked in a beard which seemed almost animal-like in thickness. A great nose curved above this beard and two small red eyes stared unblinkingly at his guests. Who are you? suddenly asked the younger man. I am the host of the Clefskull Tavern, so only replied the other. His tone seemed to challenge his questioner to ask further. Do you have many guests? Larmand pursued. Few come twice, the host grunted. Cain started and glanced up straight into those small red eyes as if he sought for some hidden meaning in the host's words. The flaming eyes seemed to dilate, then dropped sullenly before the Englishman's cold stare. I'm for bed, said Cain abruptly, bringing his meal to a close. I must take up my journey by daylight. And I, added the Frenchman, host, show us to our chambers. Black shadows wavered on the wall as the two followed their silent host down a long, dark hall. The stocky, broad body of their guide seemed to grow and expand in the light of the small candle which he carried, throwing a long, grim shadow behind him. At a certain door he halted, indicating that they were to sleep there. They entered, the host lit a candle with the one he carried, then lurched back the way he had come. In the chamber the two men glanced at each other. The only furnishings of the room were a couple of bunks, a chair or two, and a heavy table. Let us see if there be any way to make fast the door, said Cain. I like not the looks of my host. There are racks on the door and jam for a bar, said Gaston. But no bar. We might break up the table and use its pieces for a bar, mused Cain. M'endu, c'est l'heurement. You are timorous, monsieur. Cain scowled. I like not being murdered in my sleep, he answered gruffly. My faith, the Frenchman laughed. We are chance met, until I overtook you on the forest road an hour before sunset, we had never seen each other. I have seen you somewhere before, answered Cain, though I cannot now recall where. As for the other, I assume every man is an honest fellow, until he shows me he is a rogue. Moreover, I am a light sleeper and slumber with a pistol at hand. The Frenchman laughed. I was wondering how monsieur could bring himself to sleep in the room with a stranger. All right, monsieur Englishman, let us go forth and take a bar from one of the other rooms. Taking the candle with them, they went into the corridor. Other silence reigned, and the small candle twinkled redly and evilly in the thick darkness. My host hath neither guests nor servants, muttered Solomon Cain. A strange tether. What is the name now? These German words come not easily to me. The cleft skull, a bloody name afaith. They tried the rooms next to theirs, but no bar rewarded their search. At last they came to the last room at the end of the corridor. They entered. It was furnished like the rest, except that the door was provided with a small barred opening, and fastened from the outside with a heavy bolt, which was secured at one end to the door jamb. They raised the bolt and looked in. There should be an outer window, but there is not, muttered Cain. Look! The floor was stained darkly. The walls and the one bunk were hacked in places, great splinters having been torn away. Men have died in here, said Cain somberly. Is yonder not a bar fixed in the wall? Aye, but he's made fast, said the Frenchman, tugging at it. The— A section of the wall swung back, and Gaston gave a quick exclamation. A small secret room was revealed, and the two men bent over the grizzly thing that lay upon its floor. The skeleton of a man, said Gaston, and behold, how his bony leg is shackled to the floor. He was imprisoned here, and died. Nay, said Cain, the skull is cleft. Methinks mine host had a grim reason for the name of his hellish tavern. This man, like us, was no doubt a wanderer who fell into the fiend's hands. Likely, said Gaston, without interest. He was engaged and idly working the great iron ring from the skeleton's leg bones. Failing in this, he drew his sword, and with an exhibition of remarkable strength cut the chain which joined the ring on the leg to a ring set deep in the log floor. Why should he shackle a skeleton to the floor? mused the Frenchman. Mon bleu, it is a waste of good gene. Now, monsieur, he ironically addressed the white heap of bones. I have freed you, and you may go where you like. Have done, Cain's voice was deep. No good will come of marking the dead. The dead should defend themselves, leth lament. Somehow, I will slay the man who kills me, though my corpse climb up forty fathoms of ocean to do it. Cain turned toward the outer door, closing the door of the secret room behind him. He liked not this talk which smacked of demonry and witchcraft, and he was in haste to face the host with the charge of his guilt. As he turned, with his back to the Frenchman, he felt the touch of cold steel against his neck, and knew that a pistol muzzle was pressed close beneath the base of his brain. Move not, monsieur. The voice was low and silky. Move not, or I will scatter your few brains over the room. The Puritan, raging inwardly, stood with his hands in the air, while Armand slipped his pistols and sword from their sheaths. Now you can turn, Saint Gaston, stepping back. Cain bent a grim eye on the dapper fellow, who stood bare-headed now, hat in one hand, the other hand leveling his long pistol. Gaston the butcher, said the Englishman somberly. Fool that I was to trust a Frenchman. You range far, murderer. I remember you now, with that cursed great hat off. I saw you in Calais some years ago. Aye, and now you will see me never again. What was that? Rats exploring Yon Skeleton, said Cain, watching the bandit like a hawk, waiting for a single slight wavering of that black gun muzzle. The sound was of the rattle of bones. Lack enough, returned the other. No, miss you, Cain. I know you carry considerable money on your person. I had thought to wait until you slept and then slay you, but the opportunity presented itself, and I took it. You trick easily. I had little thought that I should fear a man with whom I had broken bread, said Cain, a deep timber of slow fury sounding in his voice. The bandit laughed cynically. His eyes narrowed as he began to back slowly toward the outer door. Cain's sinews tensed involuntarily. He gathered himself like a giant wolf about to launch himself in a death leap, but Gaston's hand was like a rock and the pistol never trembled. We will have no death plunges after the shots, said Gaston. Stand still, monsieur. I have seen men killed by dying men, and I wish to have distance enough between us to preclude that possibility. My faith, I will shoot, you will row and charge, but you will die before you reach me with your bare hands. And my host will have another skeleton in his secret niche. That is, if I do not kill him myself. The fool knows me not, nor I him, more over. The Frenchman was in the doorway now, siding along the barrel. The candle, which had been stuck in a niche on the wall, shed a weird flickering light which did not extend past the doorway. And with the suddenness of death from the darkness behind Gaston's back, a broad, vague form rose up and a gleaming blade swept down. The Frenchman went to his knees like a butchered ox, his brain spilling from his cleft skull. Above him towered the figure of the host, a wild and terrible spectacle still holding the hanger with which he had slain the bandit. Ho ho, he roared. Back! Cain had leapt forward as Gaston fell, but the host thrust into his very face a long pistol which he held in his left hand. Back! he repeated in a tigerish roar, and Cain retreated from the menacing weapon and the insanity in the red eyes. The Englishman stood silent, his flesh crawling as he sensed a deeper and more hideous threat than the Frenchman had offered. There was something inhuman about this man, who now swayed to and fro like some great forest beast while his mirthless laughter boomed out again. Gaston the butcher, he shouted, kicking the corpse at his feet. Ho ho, my fine brigand will hunt no more. I had heard of this fool who roamed the black forest. He wished gold, and he found death. Now your gold shall be mine, and more than gold, vengeance. I'm no foe of yours, Cain spoke calmly. All men are my foes. Look, the marks on my wrists. See, the marks on my ankles. And deep in my back, the kiss of the note. And deep in my brain, the wounds of the years of the cold, silent cells where I lay as punishment for a crime I never committed. The voice broke in a hideous grotesque sob. Cain made no answer. This man was not the first he had seen whose brain had shattered amid the horrors of the terrible continental prisons. But I escaped, the scream rose triumphantly. And here I make war on all men. What was that? Did Cain see a flash of fear in those hideous eyes? My sorcerer is rattling his bones, whispered the host. Then laughed wildly. Dying, he swore, his very bones would weave a net of death for me. I shackled his corpse to the floor, and now, deep in the night, I hear his bare skeleton clash and rattle as he seeks to be free. And I laugh! I laugh! Ho-ho! How he yearns to rise and stalk like old king death along these dark corridors when I sleep to slay me in my bed. Suddenly the insane eyes flared hideously. You were in that secret room, you and this dead fool! Did he talk to you? Cain shuddered in spite of himself. Was it insanity, or did he actually hear the faint rattle of bones as if the skeleton had moved slightly? Cain shrugged his shoulders. Rats will even tug at dusty bones. The host was laughing again. He sidled around Cain, keeping the Englishman always covered and with his free hand opened the door. All was darkness within so that Cain could not even see the glimmer of the bones on the floor. All men are my foes, mumbled the host, in the incoherent manner of the insane. Why should I spare any man? Who lifted a hand to my aid when I lay for years in the vile dungeons of Karlsruhe? And for a deed never proven. Something happened to my brain then. I became as a wolf, a brother to these of the black forest to which I fled when I escaped. They have feasted my brothers on all who lay in my tavern. All except this one who now clashes his bones, this magician from Russia. Lest he comes stalking back through the black shadows when night is over the world and slay me, for whom I slay the dead? I stripped his bones and shackled him. His sorcery was not powerful enough to save him from me, but all men know that a dead magician is more evil than a living one. Move not, Englishman! Your bones I shall leave in the secret room beside this one, too. The maniac was standing partly in the doorway of the secret room now, his weapon still menacing Cain. Suddenly he seemed to topple backward and vanished in the darkness, and at the same instant a vagrant gust of wind swept down the outer corridor and slammed the door shut behind him. The candle on the wall flickered and went out. Cain's groping hands, sweeping over the floor, found a pistol, and he straightened facing the door where the maniac had vanished. He stood in the utter darkness, his blood freezing, while a hideous muffled screaming came from the secret room, intermingled with the dry, grisly rattle of fleshless bones. Then silence fell. Cain found flint and steel and lighted the candle. Then, holding it in one hand and the pistol in the other, he opened the secret door. Great God, he muttered, as cold sweat formed on his body. This thing is beyond all reason, yet with mine own eyes I see it. Two vows have here been kept, for Gaston the Butcher swore that even in death he would avenge his slaying, and his was the hand which set Yon fleshless monster free. And he, the host of the cleft skull, lay lifeless on the floor of the secret room. His bestial face set in lines of terrible fear, and deep in his broken neck were sunk the bare finger bones of the sorcerer's skeleton. End of Rattle of Bones by Robert E. Howard. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. Read by Zoe Early. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many acquaintance and curious volume of forgotten lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Did some visit her? I muttered. Tapping at my chamber door? Only this, nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow, for my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, nameless here, forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that now, to steal the beating of my heart I stood repeating, his some visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door, some late visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door, this it is, and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, sir, said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore, but the fact is I was napping and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you, here I opened wide the door, but darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before, but the silence was unbroken and the darkness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore, this I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore, merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning all my soul within me burning, soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before, surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice, let me see then what there at is and this mystery explore, let me I hard to be still a moment and this mystery explore, tis the wind and nothing more. Open here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore, not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, but with mean of lord or lady perched above my chamber door, perched upon a bust of palace just above my chamber door, perched and sat and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance at war, though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou, I said, art sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore, tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore, quote the raven, never more. But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust spoke only that one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour, nothing further than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered, till I scarcely more than muttered, other friends have flown before, on the morrow he will leave me as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, never more. Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless said I, what it others is its only stock and store. Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one bird in bore, till the dirges of his hope that melancholy bird in bore, of never, never more. But the raven still beguiling on my sad soul into smiling, straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door. Then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking, fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, what this grim ungainly gaunt and ominous bird of yore, meant in croaking never more. This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing, to the foul whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core. This and more I sat divining with my head at ease reclining, on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, but whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er she shall press, ah, never more. Then, me thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor, swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee. Respite, respite and nepent from thy memories of Lenore, quaff, oh quaff this kind nepent, and forget this lost Lenore. Quote the raven, never more. Prophet, said I, thing of evil, Prophet still of bird or devil, whether tempter sent or whether tempest toss thee here ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, on this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore, is there, is there, bomb and gilead? Tell me, tell me I implore. Quote the raven, never more. Prophet, said I, thing of evil, Prophet still of bird or devil, by the heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore. Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant aiden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels named Lenore, clasp a rare and regent maiden, whom the angels named Lenore. Quote the raven, never more. Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend, I shrieked up starting. Get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore, leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken, leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door, take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door. Quote the raven, never more. And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, on the pallid bust of palace just above my chamber door, and his eyes hath all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, and the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor, and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted, never more. End of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Soul of the Great Bell by Lev Cardio Hearn. The water clock marks the hour in the Da Zhong Si, in the tower of the Great Bell. Now, the mallet is lifted to smite the lips of the metal monster. The vase ups inscribed with Buddhist texts from the sacred Fa Hua King. From the chapters of the holy Ling Yan King, hear the Great Bell responding. How mighty her voice, though tangeless. Co-ngai! All the little dragons on the high, tilted eaves of the green roofs shiver to the tips of the gilded tails under that deep wave of sound. All the porcelain gargoyles tremble on the carbon perches. All the hundred little bells of the picodas quiver with desire to speak. Co-ngai! All the green and gold tiles of the temple are vibrating. The wooden goldfish above them are writhing against the sky. The uplifted finger of foe shakes high over the heads of the worshippers through the blue fork of incense. Co-ngai! What a thunder-tone was that! All the lacquered goblins on the palace connoisseurs wriggle their fire-colored tongues. And after each huge shock, how wondrous the multiple echo and the great golden mongen at last, the sudden sibilant sopping in the ears when the immense tongue feigns away in the broken whispers of silver. As though a woman should whisper, hi-ai! Even so, the great bell bath sounded every day for well-nigh five hundred years. Co-ngai! First was to pen this clang. Then with immeasurable mong of gold. Then with silver murmuring of hi-ai! And there is not a child in all the many colored ways of the old Chinese city who does not know the story of the great bell, who cannot tell you why the great bell says Co-ngai! And hi-ai! Now this is the story of the great bell in the Da Zhong Si, as the same is related in the Pi Hao To Zhong, written by the learned Yu Pao Zhen of the city of Guangzhou Fu. Nearly five hundred years ago, the celestially august, the Sun of Heaven, Yong Lou of the illustrious or Meng dynasty commanded the worthy official Quang Yu that he should have a bell made of such size that the Sun, thereof, might be heard for one hundred li. And he further ordained that the voice of the bell should be strengthened with brass and deepened with gold and sweetened with silver. And that the face and the great lips of it should be graven with blessed sayings from the sacred books. And that it should be suspended in the center of the imperial capital to sound through all the many colored ways of the city of Peking. Therefore, the worthy-mendering Quang Yu assembled the master-moders and the renowned bellsmiths of the empire and all men of great repute and cunning infundry work. And they measured the materials for the alloy and treated them skirfully and prepared the molds, the lives, the instruments and the monstrous melting pot for fusing the metal. And they labored exceedingly, like giants, neglected only rest and sleep and the comforts of life, toiling both night and day in obedience to Quang Yu and striving in all things to do the behest of the Son of Heaven. But when the metal had been cast and the earthen mold separated from the glowing casting, it was discovered that despite the great labor and ceaseless care, the result was void of worth for the metals had rebelled one against the other. The gold has scorned a lines with the brass. The silver would not mingle with the molten iron. Therefore, the molds had to be once more prepared and the fires rekindled and the metal remelted and all the work tediously and toil-sumbly repeated. The Son of Heaven heard and was angry but spake nothing. A second time the bell was cast and the result was even worse. Still, the metals obstinately refused to blend one with the other. And there was no uniformity in the bell. And the sides of it were cracked and fissured and the lips of it were slagged and split asunder so that all the labor had to be repeated even a third time to the great dismay of Quang Yu. And when the Son of Heaven heard these things, he was angrier than before and sent his messenger to Quang Yu with a letter written upon lemon-coloured silk and sealed with the seal of the dragon containing these words. From the mighty Yong Luo, the sublime Tao Song, the Celestial and August whose reign is called Ming to Quang Yu the Fuyin. Twice thou hast betrayed the trust we have gained graciously to place in thee. If thou fail a third time in fulfilling our command, thy head shall be severed from thy neck, tremble and obey. Now Quang Yu had a daughter of dazzling loveliness whose name, Kou Ngai, was ever in the mouths of poets and whose heart was even more beautiful than her face. Kou Ngai loved her father with such love that she had refused a hundred worthy suitors rather than make his home desolate by her absence. And when she had seen the awful yellow missive sealed with the dragon seal, Sire fainted away with fear for her father's sake. And when her senses and her strength returned to her, she could not rest or sleep for thinking of her parents' danger until she had secretly sold some of her jewels and with the money so obtained had hastened to an astrologer and paid him a great price to advise her by what means her father might be saved from the peril impending over him. So the astrologer made observations of the heavens and marked the aspect of the silver stream, which we call the Milky Way, and examined the signs of the zodiac, the Huang Tao, or Yellow Road, and consulted the table of the Five Hin, or Principles of the Universe, and the mystical books of the alchemists. And after a long silence, he made answer to her, saying, Gold and brass will never meet in wedlock. Silver and iron never will embrace until the flesh of a maiden be incited in the crucible, until the blood of a virgin be mixed with the metals in the fusion. So Kong Ai returned home sorrowful at heart, but she kept secret all that she had heard and told no one what she had done. At last came the awful day, when the third and last effort to cast the great bell was to be made, and Kong Ai, together with her waiting woman, accompanied her father to the foundry. And they took the places upon the platform, overlooking the toiling of the motors and the lava of liquefied metal. All the workmen rocked the tasks in silence. There was no song heard but the muttering of the fires, and the muttering deepened into a roar, like the roar of typhoons approaching. And the blood-red leg of metal slowly brightened, like the vermilion of a sunrise. And the vermilion was transmuted into a radiant glow of gold, and the gold whitened blindingly, like the silver face of a full moon. Then the workers seized to feed the raving flame, and all fixed through eyes upon the eyes of Kuang Yue. And Kuang Yue prepared to give the signal to cast. But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his head, and all heard the voice of Kong Ai, sounding sharply sweet, as a bird's song about the great thunder of the fires. For thy sake, O my father, and even as she cried, she leaped into the white flood of metal, and the lava of the furnace roared to receive her, and spattered monstrous flicks of flame to the roof, and burst over the verge of the earthen crater, and cast up a whirling fountain of many-colored fires, and subsided quickingly with lightnings, and with thunders, and with mutterings. Then the father of Kong Ai, wild with his grief, would have leaped in after her. But that strong man held him back, and kept firm grasp upon him, until he had fainted away, and he could bear him like one dead to his home. And the serving woman of Kong Ai, dizzy and speechless for pain, stood before the furnace, still holding in her hands a shoe, a tiny dainty shoe, with embroidery of pearls and flowers, the shoe of a beautiful mistress that was. For she had sought to grasp Kong Ai by the foot as she leaped, but had only been able to clutch the shoe, and the pretty shoe came off in her hand, and she continued to stare at it like one gone mad. But in spite of all these things, the command of the celestial and august had to be obeyed, and the work of the modus to be finished, hopeless as the result might be. Yet the glow of the metal seemed purer and whiter than before, and there was no sign of the beautiful body that had been entombed therein. So the ponderous casting was made, and lo, when the metal had become cool, it was found that the bell was beautiful to look upon, and perfect in form, and wonderful in color, above all other bells. Nor was there any trace found of the body of Kong Ai, for it had been totally absorbed by the precious alloy, and blended with the well-blended brass and gold, with the intermingling of the silver and the iron. And when they sounded the bell, its tongs were found to be deeper and mellower and mightier than the tongs of any other bell, reaching even beyond the distance of one hundred li, like a peeling of summer thunder, and yet also like some vast voice uttering a name, a woman's name, the name of Kong Ai. And still, between each mighty stroke, there is a long, low moaning herd, and ever the moaning ends with the sound of sobbing, and of complaining. As through a weeping woman should murmur, and still, when the people hear that great golden moan, they keep silence. But when the sharp, sweet shuddering comes in the air, and the sobbing of Hiai, then indeed, do all the Chinese mothers in all the many colored waves of peaking, whisper to their little ones. Listen! That is Kong Ai crying for her shoe. That is Kong Ai calling for her shoe. End of The Soul of the Great Bell by Lev Cardio Hearn. More than seven hundred years ago, at Danoura in the Straits of Shimano-Seki, was fought the last battle of the long contest between the Heiki, or Tara clan, and the Genji, or Minamoto clan. There the Heiki perished utterly, with their women and children, and their infant emperor likewise, now remembered as Antokutenno. And that sea and shore have been haunted for seven hundred years. Elsewhere I told you about the strange crabs found there, called Heiki crabs, which have human faces on their backs, and are said to be the spirits of the Heiki warriors. But there are many strange things to be seen and heard along that coast. On dark nights thousands of ghostly fires hover about the beach, or flit above the waves, pale lights, which the fishermen call Onibi, or demon fires. And whenever the winds are up, a sound of great shouting comes from that sea, like a clamour of battle. In former years the Heiki were much more restless than they now are. They would rise about ships passing in the night, and try to sink them. And at all times they would watch for swimmers, to pull them down. It was in order to appease those dead, that the Buddhist temple Amadaji was built at Akamagaseki. A cemetery also was made close by, near the beach, and within it were set up monuments inscribed with the names of the drowned emperor, and of his great vassals. And Buddhist services were regularly performed there, on behalf of the spirits of them. After the temple had been built, and the tombs erected, the Heiki gave less trouble than before, but they continued to do queer things at intervals, proving that they had not found the perfect peace. Some centuries ago there lived at Akamagaseki, a blind man named Hoichi, who was famed for his skill in recitation, and in playing upon the Biwa. From childhood he had been trained to recite and to play, and while yet a lad he had surpassed his teachers. As a professional Biwa Hoshi, he became famous chiefly by his recitations of the history of the Heiki and the Ganji. And it is said that when he sang the song of the Battle of Danoura, even the goblins, Kijin, could not refrain from tears. At the outset of his career Hoichi was very poor, but he found a good friend to help him. The priest of the Amadaji was fond of poetry and music, and he often invited Hoichi to the temple to play and recite. Afterwards, being much impressed by the wonderful skill of the lad, the priest proposed that Hoichi should make the temple his home, and this offer was gratefully accepted. Hoichi was given a room in the temple building, and in return for food and lodging, he was required only to gratify the priest with a musical performance on certain evenings, when otherwise disengaged. One summer night the priest was called away to perform a Buddhist service at the house of a dead parishioner, and he went there with his acolyte, leaving Hoichi alone in the temple. It was a hot night, and the blind man sought to cool himself on the veranda before his sleeping room. The veranda overlooked a small garden in the rear of the Amadaji. There Hoichi waited for the priest's return, and tried to relieve his solitude by practicing upon his Biwa. Midnight passed, and the priest did not appear. But the atmosphere was still too warm for comfort within doors, and Hoichi remained outside. At last he heard steps approaching from the back gate. Somebody crossed the garden, advanced to the veranda, and halted directly in front of him. But it was not the priest. A deep voice called the blind man's name, abruptly and unceremoniously, in the manner of a samurai summoning an inferior. Hoichi. Hi! answered the blind man, frightened by the menace in the voice. I am blind. I cannot know who calls. There is nothing to fear, the stranger exclaimed, speaking more gently. I am stopping near this temple, and have been sent to you with a message. My present Lord, a person of exceedingly high rank, is now staying in a Kamakaseki, with many noble attendants. He wished to view the scene of the Battle of Dannoura, and today he visited that place. Having heard of your skill in reciting the story of the battle, he now desires to hear your performance. So, you will take your Biwa and come with me at once to the house where the August assembly is waiting. In those times the order of a samurai was not to be lightly disobeyed. Hoichi donned his sandals, took his Biwa, and went away with the stranger, who guided him deftly, but obliged him to walk very fast. The hand that guided him was iron, and the clank of the warrior stride proved him fully armed, probably some palace guard on duty. Hoichi's first alarm was over. He began to imagine himself in good luck. For, remembering the retainer's assurance about a person of exceedingly high rank, he thought that the Lord who wished to hear the recitation could not be less than a demio of the first class. Presently the samurai halted, and Hoichi became aware that they had arrived at a large gateway. And he wondered, for he could not remember any large gate in that part of the town, except the main gate of the Amidaji. Kaiman, the samurai called, and there was a sound of unbarring, and the twain passed on. They traversed a space of garden and halted again before some entrance, and the retainer cried in a loud voice. Within there I have brought Hoichi. Then came sounds of feet hurrying, and screens sliding, and reindeers opening, and the voices of women in converse. By the language of the women, Hoichi knew them to be domestics in some noble household, but he could not imagine to what place he had been conducted. Little time was allowed him for conjecture. After he had been helped to mount several stone steps, upon the last of which he was told to leave his sandals, a woman's hand guided him among interminable reaches of polished planking, and round pillared angles too many to remember, and over widths amazing of matted floor into the middle of some vast apartment. There he thought that many great people were assembled. The sound of the rustling of silk was like the sound of leaves in a forest. He heard also a great humming of voices, talking in undertones, and the speech was the speech of quartz. Hoichi was told to put himself at ease, and he found a kneeling cushion ready for him. After having taken his place upon it, and tuned his instrument, the voice of a woman, whom he devined to be the rojo, or matron in charge of the female service, addressed him, saying, It is now required that the history of the Heiki be recited to the accompaniment of the Biwa. Now the entire recital would have required a time of many nights, therefore Hoichi ventured a question. As the whole of the story is not soon told, what portion is augustly desired that I now recite? The woman's voice made answer. Recite the story of the battle at Dano'ura, for the pity of it is the most deep. Then Hoichi lifted up his voice and chanted the chant of the fight on the bitter sea, wonderfully making his Biwa to sound like the straining of oars and the rushing of ships, the whir and hissing of arrows, the shouting and trampling of men, the crashing of steel upon helmets, the plunging of slain in the flood. And to the left and right of him, in the pauses of his playing, he could hear voices murmuring praise. How marvellous an artist! Never in our province was playing heard like this. Not in all the empire is there another singer like Hoichi. Then fresh courage came to him, and he played and sang yet better than before, and a hush of wonder deepened about him. But when at last he came to tell the fate of the fair and helpless, the piteous perishing of the women and children, and the death- leap of Nii Noama, with the imperial infant in her arms, then all the listeners uttered together one long, long, shuddering cry of anguish, and thereafter they wept and wailed so loudly and so wildly that the blind man was frightened by the violence and grief that he had made. For much time the sobbing and the wailing continued. But gradually the sounds of lamentation died away, and again in the great stillness that followed, Hoichi heard the voice of the woman whom he supposed to be the rojo. She said, Although we have been assured that you were a very skillful player upon the Biwa, and without an equal in recitative, we did not know that any one could be so skillful as you have proved yourself to-night. Our Lord has been pleased to say that he intends to bestow upon you a fitting reward. But he desires that you shall perform before him once every night for the next six nights, after which time he will probably make his august return journey. Tomorrow night, therefore, you are to come here at the same hour. The retainer who to-night conducted you will be sent for you. There is another matter about which I have in order to inform you. It is required that you shall speak to no one of your visits here, during the time of our Lord's august sojourn at Akamagaseki. As he is travelling incognito, he commands that no mention of these things be made. You are now free to go back to your temple. After Huichi had duly expressed his thanks, a woman's hand conducted him to the entrance of the house, where the same retainer who had before guided him was waiting to take him home. The retainer led him to the veranda at the rear of the temple, and there made him farewell. It was almost dawn when Huichi returned, but his absence from the temple had not been observed, as the priest, coming back at a very late hour, had supposed him asleep. During the day Huichi was able to take some rest, and he said nothing about his strange adventure. In the middle of the following night the samurai again came for him and led him to the august assembly, where he gave another recitation with the same success that had attended his previous performance. But during his second visit his absence from the temple was accidentally discovered, and after his return in the morning he was summoned to the presence of the priest, who said to him, in a tone of kindly reproach, We have been very anxious about you, friend Huichi. To go out, blind and alone, at so late an hour, is dangerous. Why did you go without telling us? I could have ordered a servant to accompany you. And where have you been? Huichi answered evasively. Pardon me, kind friend. I had to attend to some private business, and I could not arrange the matter at any other hour. The priest was surprised, rather than pained, by Huichi's reticence. He felt it to be unnatural and suspected something wrong. He feared that the blind lad had been bewitched or deluded by some evil spirits. He did not ask any more questions, but he privately instructed the men-servants of the temple to keep watch upon Huichi's movements, and to follow him in case that he should again leave the temple after dark. On the very next night, Huichi was seen to leave the temple, and the servants immediately lighted their lanterns and followed after him. But it was a rainy night and very dark, and before the temple folks could get to the roadway, Huichi had disappeared. Evidently he had walked very fast, a strange thing, considering his blindness, for the road was in a bad condition. The men hurried through the streets, making inquiries at every house which Huichi was accustomed to visit. But nobody could give them any news of him. At last, as they were returning to the temple by way of the shore, they were startled by the sound of a biwa, furiously played, in the cemetery of the Amadaji. Except for some ghostly fires, such as usually flitted there on dark nights, all was blackness in that direction. But the men at once hastened to the cemetery, and there, by the help of their lanterns, they discovered Huichi, sitting alone in the rain before the memorial tomb of Antocuteno, making his biwa resound, and loudly chanting the chant of the battle of Danoura. And behind him and about him, and everywhere above the tombs, the fires of the dead were burning, like candles. Never before had so great a host of Onibi appeared in the sight of mortal man. Huichi-san! Huichi-san! the servants cried. You are bewitched, Huichi-san! But the blind man did not seem to hear. Strenuously he made his biwa to rattle and ring and clang, more and more wildly he chanted the chant of the battle of Danoura. They caught hold of him. They shouted into his ear. Huichi-san! Huichi-san! come home with us at once! Reprovingly he spoke to them. To interrupt me in such a manner before this august assembly will not be tolerated. Where at, in the spite of the weirdness of the thing, the servants could not help laughing. Sure that he had been bewitched, they now seized him and pulled him up on his feet and by main force hurried him back to the temple, where he was immediately relieved of his wet clothes by order of the priest. Then the priest insisted upon a full explanation of his friend's astonishing behavior. Huichi long hesitated to speak, but at last, finding that his conduct had really alarmed and angered the good priest, he decided to abandon his reserve and he related everything that had happened from the time of the first visit of the Samurai. The priest said, Huichi, my poor friend, you are now in great danger. How unfortunate that you did not tell me all this before! Your wonderful skill in music has indeed brought you into strange trouble. By this time you must be aware that you have not been visiting any house whatever, but have been passing your knights in the cemetery among the tombs of the Hickey, and it was before the memorial tomb of Antocoteno that our people tonight found you sitting in the rain. All that you have been imagining was illusion, except the calling of the dead. By once obeying them you have put yourself in their power. If you obey them again, and after what has already occurred, they will tear you in pieces. But they would have destroyed you sooner or later in any event. Now I shall not be able to remain with you tonight. I am called away to perform another service. But before I go it will be necessary to protect your body by writing holy texts upon it. Before sundown the priest and his acolyte stripped Huichi. Then, with their writing-brushes, they traced upon his breast and back, head and face and neck, limbs and hands and feet, even upon the soles of his feet, and upon all parts of his body the text of the holy sutra called Hanyashinkyo. When this had been done, the priest instructed Huichi, saying, Tonight, as soon as I go away, you must seat yourself on the veranda and wait. You will be called. But whatever may happen, do not answer and do not move. Say nothing and sit still, as if meditating. If you stir or make any noise, you would be torn asunder. Do not get frightened and do not think of calling for help because no help could save you. If you do exactly as I tell you, the danger will pass and you will have nothing more to fear. After dark the priest and his acolyte stripped Huichi After dark the priest and the acolyte went away and Huichi seated himself on the veranda according to the instructions given him. He laid his bewa on the planking beside him and, assuming the attitude of meditation, remained quite still, taking care not to cough or to breathe audibly. For hours he stayed thus. Then, from the roadway, he heard the steps coming. They passed the gate, crossed the garden, approached the veranda, stopped directly in front of him. Huichi The deep voice called, but the blind man held his breath and sat motionless. Huichi Grimly called the voice a second time. Then a third time, savagely, Huichi Huichi remained as still as a stone and the voice grumbled. No answer. That won't do. Must see where the fellow is. There was a noise of heavy feet mounting upon the veranda. The feet approached deliberately, halted beside him. Then, for long minutes, during which Huichi felt his whole body shake to the beating of his heart, there was dead silence. At last the gruff voice muttered close to him, Here is the bewa, but of the bewa player I see, only two ears. So, that explains why he did not answer. He had no mouth to answer with. There is nothing left of him but his ears. Now, to my lord those ears I will take, in proof that the august commands have been obeyed so far as was possible. At that instant, Huichi felt his ears gripped by fingers of iron and torn off. Great as the pain was, he gave no cry. The heavy footfalls receded along the veranda, descended into the garden, passed out to the roadway, ceased. From either side of his head the blind man felt a thick, warm trickling, but he dared not lift his hands. Before sunrise the priest came back. He hastened at once to the veranda in the rear, stepped and slipped upon something clammy and uttered a cry of horror, and saw, by the light of his lantern, that the clamminess was blood. But he perceived Huichi sitting there in the attitude of meditation, with the blood still oozing from his wounds. My poor Huichi! cried the startled priest. What is this? You have been hurt? At the sound of his friend's voice the blind man felt safe. He burst out sobbing and tearfully told the venture of the night. Poor, poor Huichi! the priest exclaimed, All my fault, my very grievous fault! Everywhere upon your body the holy text had been written, except upon your ears. I trusted my acolyte to do that part of the work, and it was very, very wrong of me not to have made sure that he had done it. Well, the matter cannot now be helped. We can only try to heal your hurts as soon as possible. Cheer up, friend! The danger is now well over. You will never again be troubled by those visitors. With the aid of a good doctor Huichi soon recovered from his injuries. The story of his strange adventures spread far and wide and soon made him famous. Many noble persons went to Agamagaseki to hear him recite, and a large presence of money were given to him so that he became a wealthy man. But from the time of his adventure he was known only by the appellation of Miminashi Huichi. Huichi, The Earless. The End of the Story of Miminashi Huichi by Lafcadio Hearn. The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe This is a LibriVox recording. LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe. True. Nervous. Very, very dreadfully nervous I have been in Am. But why will you say that I am mad? The disease has sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not doled them. Above all, was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Harken, and observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain. But once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold, I had no desire. I think it was his eye. Yes, it was this. He had the eye of a vulture, a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold. And so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Mad men know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded and with what caution I went to work. I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it, oh, so gently. And then, when I had made an open sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in. I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! Would a mad man have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously, oh, so cautiously, cautiously, for the hinges creaked. I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture's eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night, just at midnight. But I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who begs to me, but his evil eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see, he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night, I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night did I feel the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph, to think that there I was opening the door, little by little, and he, not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back, but no, his room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers. And so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out, Who's there? I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening, just as I have done night after night, hearkening to the death-watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief. Oh, no, it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening with its dreadful echo the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, it is nothing but the wind in the chimney. It is only a mouse crossing the floor, or it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp. Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions, but he found them all in vain. All in vain. Because death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little, a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it. You cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily, until at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot out from the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness, all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones. But I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? Now I say there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme. It grew louder. I say louder every moment. Do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous. So I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder. I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me. The sound would be heard by a neighbor. The old man's hour had come. With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once, only once. In an instant I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me. It would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If you still think me mad, you will think me so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye, not even his, could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out, no stain of any kind, no blood spot whatsoever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all, ha ha! When I had made the end of these labours it was four o'clock, still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with light heart, for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves with perfect suavity as offers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night. Suspicion of foul play had been aroused. Information had been lodged at the police office, and they, the officers, had been deputated to search the premises. I smiled, for what had I to fear? I bade the gentleman welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search, search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues. While I, myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But ere long I felt myself getting pale, and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied of ringing in my ears, but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct. It continued, and became more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued, and gained definiteness. Until at length I found the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale, but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased. What could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound. Much such sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gassed for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently, but the noise steadily increased. I arose, and argued about trifles in a high key with violent articulations, but the noise steadily increased. Would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. Oh, God, what could I do? I phoned, I raved, I swore. I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting and graded it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder, louder, louder, and still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Oh, mighty God, oh, no, they heard. They suspected, they knew. They were making a mockery of my horror. This I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony. Anything was more tolerable than this derision. I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer. I felt that I must scream or die. And now again, hark, louder, louder, louder, louder. Villains, I shrieked, dissemble no more. I admit the deed. Tear up the planks. Here, here, it is the beating of his hideous heart.