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Fantasy Fan, v. 1, issue 8, April 1934

Page 123

April, 1934, THE FANTASY FAN     123

room. Norman Ross had committed suicide at seven o'clock in the morning. That was an hour after I left him at his door.

I told Hegstrom plain out that I wouldn't work that night shift anymore for love or money. He said he'd have me transferred but would I stay one more night until he got a new man? Like a fool, I agreed.

It was three a.m. that next night that I turned the dial to where the China Station should come in that had failed once. I sat petrified for five seconds while I listened to a muffled voice that spoke in hisses and sharp consonants.
Then I tore the earphones off my head, smashed them against he panel with all my strength, and dashed out of the room. I remembered seeing the other operator -- the one who had taken my calls--popping his eyes out. Then I was out in the cool air, panting like I had been running for hours.

So it is that I wonder if I shouldn't escape it all--tossing nights, cold sweats of stark terror, a tortured, fevered brain? It would be so easy: a dark night, real dark, you know, so no one would see me and try to stop me, then the cool water to moisten my feverish brow--nice cool water, inviting water--just one little splash, not a noisy one--no one would know--no one would care-- no one would understand--just one splash--and then peace.

My friends tell me not to take on so over the death of my one and only pal. They do not know the story. I have told no one. My friends, they tell me there is a haunted look in my eyes, that lines are deepening in my face. They tell me to buck up, to face life squarely.

But I can't. I simply can't. I'll tell you why. After that night when I ripped out the earphones and blew a fuse in the station by short-circuiting a switch on the panel (I found that out later) I went back in answer to a call from Hegstrom. He was very kind and sympathetic. Wanted to know what had caused me to act so strangely the night before--also wanted to know what had caused Ross's suicide. Hegstrom is sharp. He saw the connection. But I clamped my jaws together and refused to say anything.

Then Hegstrom asked if the thing he held in his hand had anything to do with Ross. I took the paper. then I think I gasped or screamed or something. It was a paper filled with some of that balderdash that Ross had written that night. He must have filled two sheets, and I only destroyed one.

I left Hegstrom as mystified as ever, but I had that paper in my pocket. I had a plan to save my sanity. I took the paper to a professor at a college--a professor famous as a language specialist, ancient and modern. I gave him the paper and one hundred dollars (he afterwards returned the money) and asked him to find out from what country or place it came from.

I got my answer a week later.

There was no such language in either the modern or recorded ancient times!

Saving...

April, 1934, THE FANTASY FAN 123 room. Norman Ross had committed suicide at seven o'clock in the morning. That was an hour after I left him at his door. I told Hegstrom plain out that I wouldn't work that night shift anymore for love or money. He said he'd have me transferred but would I stay one more night until he got a new man? Like a fool, I agreed. It was three a.m. that next night that I turned the dial to where the China Station should come in that had failed once. I sat petrified for five seconds while I listened to a muffled voice that spoke in hisses and sharp consonants. Then I tore the earphones off my head, smashed them against he panel with all my strength, and dashed out of the room. I remembered seeing the other operator -- the one who had taken my calls--popping his eyes out. Then I was out in the cool air, panting like I had been running for hours. So it is that I wonder if I shouldn't escape it all--tossing nights, cold sweats of stark terror, a tortured, fevered brain? It would be so easy: a dark night, real dark, you know, so no one would see me and try to stop me, then the cool water to moisten my feverish brow--nice cool water, inviting water--just one little splash, not a noisy one--no one would know--no one would care-- no one would understand--just one splash--and then peace. My friends tell me not to take on so over the death of my one and only pal. They do not know the story. I have told no one. My friends, they tell me there is a haunted look in my eyes, that lines are deepening in my face. They tell me to buck up, to face life squarely. But I can't. I simply can't. I'll tell you why. After that night when I ripped out the earphones and blew a fuse in the station by short-circuiting a switch on the panel (I found that out later) I went back in answer to a call from Hegstrom. He was very kind and sympathetic. Wanted to know what had caused me to act so strangely the night before--also wanted to know what had caused Ross's suicide. Hegstrom is sharp. He saw the connection. But I clamped my jaws together and refused to say anything. Then Hegstrom asked if the thing he held in his hand had anything to do with Ross. I took the paper. then I think I gasped or screamed or something. It was a paper filled with some of that balderdash that Ross had written that night. He must have filled two sheets, and I only destroyed one. I left Hegstrom as mystified as ever, but I had that paper in my pocket. I had a plan to save my sanity. I took the paper to a professor at a college--a professor famous as a language specialist, ancient and modern. I gave him the paper and one hundred dollars (he afterwards returned the money) and asked him to find out from what country or place it came from. I got my answer a week later. There was no such language in either the modern or recorded ancient times!