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Xenon, v. 1, issue 1, March 1944
Page 3
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Page three XENON That Old Piano by Robert S. Maney It's coming from beneath the house--I'll put on my coat and go out and take a look. I kneel down beside the house, turning my back to the icy wind. Black under here; a light would help. It must be coming from here--probably a dead cat, but I can't smell anything now. Do I imagine that smell? Returning to the door, I push--it is shut tight, locked. I shiver, suddenly feeling frightened, then select the proper key from my ring and insert it in the lock. Nothing happens. The key simply revolves without catching the tumblers. I try another, another, but still they won't open this door which I had just opened an hour before with one of these keys. Frantically, I try the keys once more, but in vain. Despite the cold wind, a heavy sweat breaks out on my forehead. I am puzzled and I don't like this strange business. Better try a window. Retracing my steps I reach the front window, pushing upon it with all my force, but it holds fast. With my fist, I poke out one pane, reaching in to unlock it. My hand is clumsy from the cold--as I withdraw it the glass cuts deeply in two places, yet no blood appears. Queer. I climb in, shut the window, clamber over a dusty old piano to the floor. Accidently my foot stricks several keys--the strings vibrate dully, as if they were stuffed with rage. Once again by the cheerful fire: ha ha--I'm laughing at myself for being afraid of the dark, of the locked door, of that horrible smell. I'm not afraid, am I? After a glance about at those flickering ghostly shadows I decide maybe I am a bit afraid. Just as I threw another log on the fire,
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Page three XENON That Old Piano by Robert S. Maney It's coming from beneath the house--I'll put on my coat and go out and take a look. I kneel down beside the house, turning my back to the icy wind. Black under here; a light would help. It must be coming from here--probably a dead cat, but I can't smell anything now. Do I imagine that smell? Returning to the door, I push--it is shut tight, locked. I shiver, suddenly feeling frightened, then select the proper key from my ring and insert it in the lock. Nothing happens. The key simply revolves without catching the tumblers. I try another, another, but still they won't open this door which I had just opened an hour before with one of these keys. Frantically, I try the keys once more, but in vain. Despite the cold wind, a heavy sweat breaks out on my forehead. I am puzzled and I don't like this strange business. Better try a window. Retracing my steps I reach the front window, pushing upon it with all my force, but it holds fast. With my fist, I poke out one pane, reaching in to unlock it. My hand is clumsy from the cold--as I withdraw it the glass cuts deeply in two places, yet no blood appears. Queer. I climb in, shut the window, clamber over a dusty old piano to the floor. Accidently my foot stricks several keys--the strings vibrate dully, as if they were stuffed with rage. Once again by the cheerful fire: ha ha--I'm laughing at myself for being afraid of the dark, of the locked door, of that horrible smell. I'm not afraid, am I? After a glance about at those flickering ghostly shadows I decide maybe I am a bit afraid. Just as I threw another log on the fire,
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