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Comet, v. 1, issue 3, May-June 1940

Page 9

THE COMET     PAGE 9

--HORROR'S CELLAR--

Once I slammed on my emergency brake at what I took for a body lying in the road a few feet ahead--and then cursed myself for my foolishness when I saw it was only an old tree trunk, evidently recently fallen. But lying there by the side of the little pathway it had given me a jolt; after that, my senses seemed a little clearer, a little sharper, and what I went through a few moments later did not affect me so much as it might have otherwise. Why this was so I have no explanation to offer; some psychological quirk, no doubt, that helped to relieve my pent up emotion. Perhaps, up until that moment, I had been, subconciously, hoping for something to happen--something that would tell me something, something I could use to relieve my tension. It seemed to clear the atmosphere somewhat, like a flash of lightning clearing the static electricity between the two clouds.

In another moment I was up to the very porch of Morton's house. Lights blazed throughout---the sight of them sent a little quiver of fear through me, for Morton, in his natural senses, would have never left so many on at one time. it made me think more and more that he must be either dead or unconscious. And yet, what had the reason been for that awful scream---had it been his imagination, or---something else? And why had he not wished me not to come? It hardly seemed likely that he would have warned me to stay away if he actually was mad---a twisted mentality could hardly conceive such a notion. And yet, there was ever that damnable uncertainity---and the most pressing uncertainity was the ever present question; was Morton dead, unconscious, or---what? Might he be violently mad---waiting in there to pounce upon me?

Locking the car, I walked up tot he front door of the house, up the creaking porch steps. The windows made it shine like a lighthouse in the darkness. Trying the front door, I found it to be locked--my ethics there might have been questioned, but in thatstate of mind I was ready to commit house breaking to determine what had happened to Morton. Rapping produced no response, the windows grinning back at me as if with an unholy glee, and I picked my way cautiously to the back door.

I might make note of the fact that Morton was, by profession, an author--or rather had been. for a goodly number of years his output in various lines--mainly fiction--had been tremendous, and he had by this time practically retired on his savings. No one knew, not even I, just how much he was worth. But estimates in the town ran high. His owned this old house--its tax assessment was nearly nothing, due to its run-down state and distance from desirable property. His living expenses, since he stayed by himself, were a mere pittance. Besides, he still wrote at times, and it was likely that he was not forced to touch his savings. My own opinion of the matter had always been that he had worked too hard in previous years---and now he was paying for it, by his eccentricity.

I reached the back door safely enough. To my surprise I saw it standing agape, the illumination from within shining out and lighting the surrounding ground like daylight, so bright was it. first calling out, I walked into the house and saw no one. On the floor lay the telephone, with its receiver off the hook.

There on the table sat Morton's typewriter, and beside it several

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THE COMET PAGE 9 --HORROR'S CELLAR-- Once I slammed on my emergency brake at what I took for a body lying in the road a few feet ahead--and then cursed myself for my foolishness when I saw it was only an old tree trunk, evidently recently fallen. But lying there by the side of the little pathway it had given me a jolt; after that, my senses seemed a little clearer, a little sharper, and what I went through a few moments later did not affect me so much as it might have otherwise. Why this was so I have no explanation to offer; some psychological quirk, no doubt, that helped to relieve my pent up emotion. Perhaps, up until that moment, I had been, subconciously, hoping for something to happen--something that would tell me something, something I could use to relieve my tension. It seemed to clear the atmosphere somewhat, like a flash of lightning clearing the static electricity between the two clouds. In another moment I was up to the very porch of Morton's house. Lights blazed throughout---the sight of them sent a little quiver of fear through me, for Morton, in his natural senses, would have never left so many on at one time. it made me think more and more that he must be either dead or unconscious. And yet, what had the reason been for that awful scream---had it been his imagination, or---something else? And why had he not wished me not to come? It hardly seemed likely that he would have warned me to stay away if he actually was mad---a twisted mentality could hardly conceive such a notion. And yet, there was ever that damnable uncertainity---and the most pressing uncertainity was the ever present question; was Morton dead, unconscious, or---what? Might he be violently mad---waiting in there to pounce upon me? Locking the car, I walked up tot he front door of the house, up the creaking porch steps. The windows made it shine like a lighthouse in the darkness. Trying the front door, I found it to be locked--my ethics there might have been questioned, but in thatstate of mind I was ready to commit house breaking to determine what had happened to Morton. Rapping produced no response, the windows grinning back at me as if with an unholy glee, and I picked my way cautiously to the back door. I might make note of the fact that Morton was, by profession, an author--or rather had been. for a goodly number of years his output in various lines--mainly fiction--had been tremendous, and he had by this time practically retired on his savings. No one knew, not even I, just how much he was worth. But estimates in the town ran high. His owned this old house--its tax assessment was nearly nothing, due to its run-down state and distance from desirable property. His living expenses, since he stayed by himself, were a mere pittance. Besides, he still wrote at times, and it was likely that he was not forced to touch his savings. My own opinion of the matter had always been that he had worked too hard in previous years---and now he was paying for it, by his eccentricity. I reached the back door safely enough. To my surprise I saw it standing agape, the illumination from within shining out and lighting the surrounding ground like daylight, so bright was it. first calling out, I walked into the house and saw no one. On the floor lay the telephone, with its receiver off the hook. There on the table sat Morton's typewriter, and beside it several