OUT OF THE MISTS OF TIME
471
was just about to do so when, by some unfortunate chance; Ericson came in. Of coursel could not talk before him, so I resolved to wait for him tor go, and since he showed no intention of doing so, we sat about the fire, moody and distrait.
Then I felt the powers of evil mar¬ shaling about us in the room. In an¬ other moment I knew that Ericson’s age-old antagonist was there. They struggled) and as they did so, I felt my self-control slipping away from me. I, was no longer Karl Jordan. I was a fiend. I looked around the room for something with which to strike him down from behind.
To my indescribable relief the spell of the Evil grew less, and like a flood of cold water, my real self came back to me. ’ fn a daze of horror, I flung myself oilt of the room and hurried to bed, sending up a fervent prayer that I mi£ht wake to find myself no longer hag-ridden with another man’s hate. 'Shortly I was in a heavy slum¬ ber.
I awoke just as my little clock was striking 2, and to my terror and de¬ spair I. found that the spirit of the viking: had me completely in its clutch. I lay, muscles tense, hands clenched, waiting for the next move of the preemptor of my body.
It was not long in coming, for I rose, or rather, it rose, and walked softly across to the window. From there I could see, faintly, the outlines of the museum, black as a toad against the snow. A light gleamed in one of the basement windows. I felt my features crease into a savage grin of satisfaction, and I suddenly remem¬ bered that Ericson was serving as night watchman there during the reg¬ ular watchman’s illness. An inkling of what was to happen flashed through iny mind, but I refused to ac¬ cept it j I should have lost my sanity if I had- 1
M y next move was to pull on my clothes and walk, bareheaded, straight out of the dormitory and across the snow to the little window where the light showed. My tracks were left, clear and distinct, in the snow behind me.
I crouched and peered through the window; Ericson was seated with a book by a small electric reading light. His coat and vest were off and his sleeves were rolled up, so that the smooth muscles of his forearms were displayed. My eyes dilated with hate, while my real self cowered in a comer of my brain, aghast at the monstrous plans the spirit from time was formu-
With great caution I slipped from my position by the window and made my way around to the main entrance of the building. At one side and be¬ neath the wide steps was a little door, used for entrance to the basement. Shuddering at my own strength, I pushed this open, breaking off an old rusty bolt as I did so. Entering, I found myself in the dismal place that every museum has — the storeroom where the objects not on exhibition are kept. I hurried silently by heaps of musty, dusty old things, averting my eyes from the faces that accused me out of ancient canvas, from spin¬ ning-wheels that seemed to be turning with ghostly activity, making my shroud, and from the grinning skulls of cavemen.
At last I came to the end of this morgue of inanimate objects. (Were they inanimate?) I quietly opened a heavy oak door and was in a part of the main museum—the archeological section. I began to tread softly, like a beast stalking its prey, and as I made the turn of a corridor I found myself directly behind Ericson, who was still engrossed in his book.
Slinking behind a case of exhibits I peered out and engraved every de¬ tail of the scene on my braitr. Eric¬ son was seated beside a case like the
