The-Crawling-Death-Chapter-08

PRESENTLY the form of the woman lay quiet, and the man rose to a crouching position. His eyes glared and then changed to an expression of terror. Before him stood the figure of his father, his finger pointing accusingly to the still form of the woman.

Again utter blackness for what seemed an interminable period. And yet again I saw an emanation from nothingness, that grew into a filmy form—this time the elder Ormond. He stood pondering deeply. Then a look of resolve, of ter-
rible unchanging resolve, gathered upon his face. He clapped his hands. A ser-
vant appeared and received some in-
structions.

Presently there walked, or rather slunk, into the room the figure of the younger Ormond. He seemed to be livid with terror. Some words were spoken.

Then the older man took a handkerchief and blindfolded the younger one. With-
out resistance, he was led to a heavy ta-
ble where he was made to kneel down. At a word of command, the huge, mon-
strous hands were extended and laid palm downward upon the table. Then the father, taking a large sword from the wall, stepped to the side of his son and with one blow sheared off both hands.

Instantly the light flashed on, the fire burned cheerfully in the grate. The pic-
ture on the wall looked down sardonic-
ally. Was it then all a dream?

I looked around for Jim. He was not there. I looked at my watch. But five minutes had elapsed since he left me. Again I tried the door and the window. Both were immovable. For one moment I considered jumping to the ground, but I discarded the idea immediately on ac-
count of the height. And again the fire in the grate disappeared. It was snuffed out like a candle. The electric light fol-
lowed, and thick darkness once more en-
veloped me.

Watching intently, I saw the shapeless mist gather in the far corner, take form and assume the semblance of life. This time it was the figure of a bent old man with scanty gray locks. He was sitting on a bench, crooning back and forth over some object that lay in his lap. Sud-
denly he raised his head and peered eagerly, almost wistfully, at the picture on the wall which, in the midst of the glow surrounding it, leered back mock-
ingly. The figure raised its arms as if in supplication, and I saw that both hands were gone at the wrists.

It was the face of Ormond, the uxori-
cide, old, hardened, evil, as it must have looked in the later years of his life. The old eyes fell again to the object on his lap which he fondled with his stumps of arms. They took life and began to crawl up the front of his coat, and I saw to my horror that they were severed hands. Large, hairy, monstrous hands!

For a time they nestled, one on either shoulder. The old man still weaved back and forth, his twisted mouth mumbling words. Suddenly he stopped and lis-
tened intently. One of the hands seemed to be imparting information to him, for it writhed and ran up and down his body. Then it stopped and poised motion-
less on his knees, and I saw that it had raised itself on three fingers and thumb, its long bony index finger pointing out-
ward.

It was a moment before I realized the fearful significance of this. When I did I almost collapsed. The great, grisly hand, with rigid index finger was point-
ing directly at me!

Slowly the old eyes followed the direc-
tion of the finger; slowly, slowly, they raised and at last looked full into mine. In vain I tried to lower my lids, to turn my eyes away. Those fierce, cruel, devil-
ish orbs held them immovable. He leaped quickly to his feet. A look such as I had seen when he strangled the dog and the woman distorted his features.

He sprang toward me, then stopped short and looked at his useless arms. He gnashed his teeth in rage, but quickly whispered something to the two hands that were hanging to his shoulders. They seemed to understand, for immediately they crept rapidly from their perch, down his body, and to the floor. For an instant only they paused. Then, like monstrous spiders they crawled slowly in my direction.

I realized that the crucial moment had come, that now or never I must assert my will power, my courage, or I would never leave the room alive. Stifling the shriek that rose to my lips I summoned all my remaining courage. I reiterated aloud my oft-repeated theory that the spirits of the dead could have no power over the living in the face of undaunted courage. Was mine undaunted? Yes! Yes! I shrieked it aloud. No power, however devilish, would overcome it.

And slowly the creeping, crawling hands, like huge, hairy spiders, ap-
proached me. They reached my feet. My heels kicked the wall. They had now clasped my ankles. Their clutch burned like fire. The figure of the old man was dancing in fiendish glee. The picture on the wall seemed to gloat. And now I felt them crawling up my legs, the long nails of each finger digging sharply into my flesh.

My own hands seemed powerless. As they hitched themselves heavily, cum-
brously over my stomach and heart I turned deathly sick. I felt I must soon give way. I don’t know that I screamed, probably I did, for the inside of my throat ached intolerably.

If I could only get power into my own hands! I was no weakling. I could cope successfully with strong men. To use my hands before those others reached my throat! The vulnerable point. I thought of Brooks, of Jim—the coward! I gasped for breath. Oh, God, help! With one su-
preme effort, I unloosed the power that held me.

My own hands shot with desperate, su-
perhuman strength to those monstrous things that were already clutching my throat. With one last effort of will I tore first one, then the other, from my throat and with a shriek of horror and loathing I dashed them from me. I heard a crash of glass. The picture before me was dissolved from view. I reeled and fell just as a loud honk! honk! sounded on the air.

I was dimly conscious of a crash of doors, of a blinding light, of Jim’s voice—then utter, complete oblivion.