Page:Weird Tales Volume 9 Number 3 (1927-03).djvu/88

Terror-stricken, I had leaped away from my crazed host, but seeing his present condition, I paused for an instant. Would to God I had gone, and never seen what next greeted my eyes!

A sudden and horrible change came over the man's face; it was as though all the evil lineaments of his features were subtly deepened, accented, made more hellishly repulsive. His glassy eyes lit up with the light of an accursed intelligence, and his voice, raised but an instant before in desperate warning, now sank to a throaty murmur.

"My dear Clarke," he said fawningly, "I am sorry I startled you so. It is a—a little weakness of mine, this fear of midnight!" He chuckled evilly, and came slowly closer to me, his eyes alight with a hungry and menacing gleam that caused me to shrink from him, speechless with surprize and fright.

I had the distinct impression that this was not the man I knew at all. He wore the same clothes, had the same face and figure, and the transition, if transition there had been, had occurred before my very eyes, yet I could not force my senses to accept this gloating, leering figure as the kindly old man who had, four or five hours ago, so courteously bidden me welcome.

My God! Could it be possible that the story was true? It was unbelievable, but—God! He was coming closer, his arms dangling like a gorilla's, and his bestial head thrust forward ominously. And for the instant, my nerveless legs refused to obey my commands.

"Sit down! What are you afraid of?" he commanded gruffly.

Instead of doing as he ordered, I bolted for the door. Morton leaped after me, curses showering from his slavering mouth.

I flung the door open just in time, slammed it in the face of my pursuer, and spuming the gravel of the drive with flying feet, fairly flew toward the outer gate.

As I swung the rusty and creaking halves of the ancient gate together, I paused for a moment with beating heart to look back at the gloomy old pile I had just quitted.

Morton was standing in the doorway, his figure clearly silhouetted by the streaming yellow light. He had his hands on his hips, and he was shouting and roaring with obscene mirth, like some malicious demon standing on the edge of hell's yawning pit and laughing at the anguish of the damned.

So far as I am concerned, this is the end of the story. I have never called on Morton since that night. At times, when I drive by his place, I see him wandering aimlessly, a pitiful figure, along the desolate and weed-choked drive, or sitting, motionless and alone, on the sagging, rotting porch.

Probably you will not believe the story Morton told me. I do not blame you. Sometimes, I doubt whether I believe it myself.

But when I recall the hideous metamorphosis that changed a friend into a demon seeking my very life, and all in less than the time it takes a church bell to toll the hour of 12—when I live that moment over again, I tell you, friend, I know!