By ROBERT E. HOWARD
A shuddery tale of dark horror and evil
things, and the uncanny funeral rites
over the corpse of old John Grimlan.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales February 1937.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The thunder of my old-fashioned door-knocker, reverberating eerilythrough the house, roused me from a restless and nightmare-hauntedsleep. I looked out the window. In the last light of the sinking moon,the white face of my friend John Conrad looked up at me.
"May I come up, Kirowan?" His voice was shaky and strained.
"Certainly!" I sprang out of bed and pulled on a bath-robe as I heardhim enter the front door and ascend the stairs.
A moment later he stood before me, and in the light which I had turnedon I saw his hands tremble and noticed the unnatural pallor of his face.
"Old John Grimlan died an hour ago," he said abruptly.
"Indeed? I had not known that he was ill."
"It was a sudden, virulent attack of peculiar nature, a sort of seizuresomewhat akin to epilepsy. He has been subject to such spells of lateyears, you know."
I nodded. I knew something of the old hermit-like man who had livedin his great dark house on the hill; indeed, I had once witnessed oneof his strange seizures, and I had been appalled at the writhings,howlings and yammerings of the wretch, who had groveled on the earthlike a wounded snake, gibbering terrible curses and black blasphemiesuntil his voice broke in a wordless screaming which spattered his lipswith foam. Seeing this, I understood why people in old times looked onsuch victims as men possessed by demons.
"——some hereditary taint," Conrad was saying. "Old John doubtlessfell heir to some ingrown weakness brought on by some loathsomedisease, which was his heritage from perhaps a remote ancestor—suchthings occasionally happen. Or else—well, you know old John himselfpried about in the mysterious parts of the earth, and wandered all overthe East in his younger days. It is quite possible that he was infectedwith some obscure malady in his wanderings. There are still manyunclassified diseases in Africa and the Orient."
"But," said I, "you have not told me the reason for this sudden visitat this unearthly hour—for I notice that it is past midnight."
My friend seemed rather confused.
"Well, the fact is that John Grimlan died alone, except for myself. Herefused to receive any medical aid of any sort, and in the last fewmoments when it was evident that he was dying, and I was prepared togo for some sort of help in spite of him, he set up such a howling andscreaming that I could not refuse his passionate pleas—which were thathe should not be left to die alone.
"I have seen men die," added Conrad, wiping the perspiration from hispale brow, "but the death of John Grimlan was the most fearful I haveever seen."
"He suffered a great deal?"
"He appeared to be in much physical agony, but this was mostlysubmerged by some monstrous mental or psychic suffering. The fear inhis distended eyes and his screams transcended any conceivable earthlyterror. I tell you, Kirowan, Grimlan's fright was greater and deeperthan the ordinary fear of the Beyond shown by a man of ordinarily evillife."
I shifted restlessly. The dark implications of this statement sent achill of nameless apprehension trickling down my spine.
"I know the country people always claimed that in his youth he soldhis soul to the Devil, and that his sudden epileptic attacks weremerely a visible sign of the