DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 4, issue 1, whole no. 13, Winter 1946 |

Transcribe
Translate

Acolyte, v. 4, issue 1, whole no. 13, Winter 1946

vasion, of course, and we cannot fail."
"Ya mean there's more of you guys?"
"Certainly. There's John Jones in San Francisco, Jim Watson in New York, Arthur Tucker in Bloomington, and about three thousand others of us. The whole world is being covered this way. We've looked you over in detail. We know your culture better than you do. It has failed to meet our standards. We know your weak points and your strong ones. We will strike, and soon. Kill off everybody and take over."
"How come we haven't heard of the other little guys?"
"You're all too blase to admit our existence, that's all. I've been in constant communication (he choked here) with all my army, and we've found the same condition prevailing everywhere."
"Brother," said the reporter earnestly, "either you and/or I should go somewhere and sleep this off."
"You see?" said George compacently. "You find yourself incapable of believing me. That is all to the good."
"Uh huh," said the reporter. "And just when is D-Day?"
"Today, said George. "Ten minutes from now."
"Aw, t'ell with it all," said the reporter, and staggered away. He'd walked a short distance when he thought he needed a quick one. He tilted to the left and followed a tacking course which brought him up against a bar where he ordered a double rum. As the glass was placed in front of him, everybody, including the bartender, dissolved. He was alone in the bar. He ran into the street just in time to see the last of the people dissolving. Several cars careened off curbs or jumped them and came to sudden stops against buildings. Nobody at the wheel.
Pretty soon he saw George.
"Hey!" he shouted.
"Yes?" said George politely.
"You were on the level, then, about all that stuff you were telling me, eh?"
"Certainly," said George. 
"Then everybody's been dissolved?"
"Indubitably," said George, his face going blue as he choked on the five-syllable word.
When George  had recovered, the reporter said, "Well, then, how come I'm still alive?"
"While you spoke to me you were enveloped in my protective aura, naturally." (He didn't choke on this one.) "Soon as it wears off, you'll melt away also."
"Ya mean I'm gonna dissolve like the rest of them?"
"Right," said George.
He did, too.

CRITERION FOR CRITICISM
It matters little from the standpoint of the compass what the setting of a ghost story may be. The really important thing is that it should make us reluctant to look behind us on our way upstairs, or put our hand into the wardrobe without first opening wide its door, or forget how easily anyone (or thing) beneath the bed can grip our ankles just after we have kicked our shoes off.
---The Spectator, CXXXV, 1107.

-- 15 --

Saving...

vasion, of course, and we cannot fail." "Ya mean there's more of you guys?" "Certainly. There's John Jones in San Francisco, Jim Watson in New York, Arthur Tucker in Bloomington, and about three thousand others of us. The whole world is being covered this way. We've looked you over in detail. We know your culture better than you do. It has failed to meet our standards. We know your weak points and your strong ones. We will strike, and soon. Kill off everybody and take over." "How come we haven't heard of the other little guys?" "You're all too blase to admit our existence, that's all. I've been in constant communication (he choked here) with all my army, and we've found the same condition prevailing everywhere." "Brother," said the reporter earnestly, "either you and/or I should go somewhere and sleep this off." "You see?" said George compacently. "You find yourself incapable of believing me. That is all to the good." "Uh huh," said the reporter. "And just when is D-Day?" "Today, said George. "Ten minutes from now." "Aw, t'ell with it all," said the reporter, and staggered away. He'd walked a short distance when he thought he needed a quick one. He tilted to the left and followed a tacking course which brought him up against a bar where he ordered a double rum. As the glass was placed in front of him, everybody, including the bartender, dissolved. He was alone in the bar. He ran into the street just in time to see the last of the people dissolving. Several cars careened off curbs or jumped them and came to sudden stops against buildings. Nobody at the wheel. Pretty soon he saw George. "Hey!" he shouted. "Yes?" said George politely. "You were on the level, then, about all that stuff you were telling me, eh?" "Certainly," said George. "Then everybody's been dissolved?" "Indubitably," said George, his face going blue as he choked on the five-syllable word. When George had recovered, the reporter said, "Well, then, how come I'm still alive?" "While you spoke to me you were enveloped in my protective aura, naturally." (He didn't choke on this one.) "Soon as it wears off, you'll melt away also." "Ya mean I'm gonna dissolve like the rest of them?" "Right," said George. He did, too. CRITERION FOR CRITICISM It matters little from the standpoint of the compass what the setting of a ghost story may be. The really important thing is that it should make us reluctant to look behind us on our way upstairs, or put our hand into the wardrobe without first opening wide its door, or forget how easily anyone (or thing) beneath the bed can grip our ankles just after we have kicked our shoes off. ---The Spectator, CXXXV, 1107. -- 15 --