




                        The Haunter of the Ring

                          By ROBERT E. HOWARD

              _A strange story of dark powers and occult
               evil, by the author of "Black Colossus. "_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                        Weird Tales June 1934. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] As I entered John Kirowan's study I was too much engrossed in my own
thoughts to notice, at first, the haggard appearance of his visitor, a
big, handsome young fellow well known to me. "Hello, Kirowan," I greeted. "Hello, Gordon. Haven't seen you for quite
a while. How's Evelyn?" And before he could answer, still on the crest
of the enthusiasm which had brought me there, I exclaimed: "Look here,
you fellows, I've got something that will make you stare! I got it
from that robber Ahmed Mektub, and I paid high for it, but it's worth
it. Look!" From under my coat I drew the jewel-hilted Afghan dagger
which had fascinated me as a collector of rare weapons. Kirowan, familiar with my passion, showed only polite interest, but the
effect on Gordon was shocking. With a strangled cry he sprang up and backward, knocking the chair
clattering to the floor. Fists clenched and countenance livid he faced
me, crying: "Keep back! Get away from me, or----"

I was frozen in my tracks. "What in the----" I began bewilderedly, when Gordon, with another
amazing change of attitude, dropped into a chair and sank his head in
his hands. I saw his heavy shoulders quiver. I stared helplessly from
him to Kirowan, who seemed equally dumfounded. "Is he drunk?" I asked. Kirowan shook his head, and filling a brandy glass, offered it to the
man. Gordon looked up with haggard eyes, seized the drink and gulped it
down like a man half famished. Then he straightened up and looked at us
shamefacedly. "I'm sorry I went off my handle, O'Donnel," he said. "It was the
unexpected shock of you drawing that knife." "Well," I retorted, with some disgust, "I suppose you thought I was
going to stab you with it!" "Yes, I did!" Then, at the utterly blank expression on my face, he
added: "Oh, I didn't actually _think_ that; at least, I didn't reach
that conclusion by any process of reasoning. It was just the blind
primitive instinct of a hunted man, against whom anyone's hand may be
turned." His strange words and the despairing way he said them sent a queer
shiver of nameless apprehension down my spine. "What are you talking about?" I demanded uneasily. "Hunted? For what? You never committed a crime in your life." "Not in this life, perhaps," he muttered. "What do you mean?" "What if retribution for a black crime committed in a previous life
were hounding me?" he muttered. "That's nonsense," I snorted. "Oh, is it?" he exclaimed, stung. "Did you ever hear of my
great-grandfather, Sir Richard Gordon of Argyle?" "Sure; but what's that got to do with----"

"You've seen his portrait: doesn't it resemble me?" "Well, yes," I admitted, "except that your expression is frank and
wholesome whereas his is crafty and cruel." "He murdered his wife," answered Gordon. "Suppose the theory of
reincarnation were true? Why shouldn't a man suffer in one life for a
crime committed in another?" "You mean you think you are the reincarnation of your
great-grandfather? Of all the fantastic--well, since he killed his
wife, I suppose you'll be expecting Evelyn to murder you!" This last
was delivered in searing sarcasm, as I thought of the sweet, gentle
girl Gordon had married. His answer stunned me. "My wife," he said slowly, "has tried to kill me three times in the
past week." There was no reply to that. I glanced helplessly at John Kirowan. He
sat in his customary position, chin resting on his strong, slim hands;
his white face was immobile, but his dark eyes gleamed with interest. In the silence I heard a clock ticking like a death-watch. "Tell us the full story, Gordon," suggested Kirowan, and his calm, even
voice was like a knife that cut a strangling, relieving the unreal
tension. *       *       *       *       *

"You know we've been married less than a year," Gordon began, plunging
into the tale as though he were bursting for utterance; his words
stumbled and tripped over one another. "All couples have spats,
of course, but we've never had any real quarrels. Evelyn is the
best-natured girl in the world. "The first thing out of the ordinary occurred about a week ago. We had
driven up in the mountains, left the car, and were wandering around
picking wild flowers. At last we came to a steep slope, some thirty
feet in height, and Evelyn called my attention to the flowers which
grew thickly at the foot. I was looking over the edge and wondering if
I could climb down without tearing my clothes to ribbons, when I felt a
violent shove from behind that toppled me over. "If it had been a sheer cliff, I'd have broken my neck. As it was, I
went tumbling down, rolling and sliding, and brought up at the bottom
scratched and bruised, with my garments in rags. I looked up and saw
Evelyn staring down, apparently frightened half out of her wits. "'Oh Jim!' she cried. 'Are you hurt? How came you to fall?' "It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that there was such a thing
as carrying a joke too far, but these words checked me. I decided that
she must have stumbled against me unintentionally, and actually didn't
know it was she who precipitated me down the slope. "So I laughed it off, and went home. She made a great fuss over me,
insisted on swabbing my scratches with iodine, and lectured me for my
carelessness! I hadn't the heart to tell her it was her fault. "But four days later, the next thing happened. I was walking along our
driveway, when I saw her coming up it in the automobile. I stepped out
on the grass to let her by, as there isn't any curb along the driveway. She was smiling as she approached me, and slowed down the car, as if to
speak to me. Then, just before she reached me, a most horrible change
came over her expression. Without warning the car leaped at me like
a living thing as she drove her foot down on the accelerator. Only a
frantic leap backward saved me from being ground under the wheels. The
car shot across the lawn and crashed into a tree. I ran to it and found
Evelyn dazed and hysterical, but unhurt. She babbled of losing control
of the machine. "I carried her into the house and sent for Doctor Donnelly. He found
nothing seriously wrong with her, and attributed her dazed condition to
fright and shock. Within half an hour she regained her normal senses,
but she's refused to touch the wheel since. Strange to say, she seemed
less frightened on her own account than on mine. She seemed vaguely
to know that she'd nearly run me down, and grew hysterical again when
she spoke of it. Yet she seemed to take it for granted that I knew the
machine had got out of her control.