“New Lead Xebico Fog CP

    “The rescue party which went out at 11 p. m. to investigate a
    weird story of the origin of a fog which, since late yesterday,
    has shrouded the city in darkness, has failed to return. Another
    and larger party has been dispatched. “Meanwhile the fog has, if possible, grown heavier. It seeps
    through the cracks in the doors and fills the atmosphere with a
    terribly depressing odor of decay. It is oppressive, terrifying,
    bearing with it a subtle impression of things long dead. “Residents of the city have left their homes and gathered in the
    local church, where the priests are holding services of prayer. The scene is beyond description. Grown folk and children are alike
    terrified and many are almost beside themselves with fear. “Mid the wisps of vapor which partially veil the church
    auditorium, an old priest is praying for the welfare of his flock. The audience alternately wail and cross themselves. “From the outskirts of the city may be heard cries of unknown
    voices. They echo through the fog in queer uncadenced minor keys. The sounds resemble nothing so much as wind whistling through a
    gigantic tunnel. But the night is calm and there is no wind. The
    second rescue party--(more)”

I am a calm man and never in a dozen years spent with the wires have
been known to become excited, but despite myself I rose from my chair
and walked to the window. Could I be mistaken, or far down in the canyons of the city beneath me
did I see a faint trace of fog? Pshaw! It was all imagination. In the pressroom the click of the sounders seemed to have raised the
tempo of their tune. Morgan alone had not stirred from his chair. His
head sunk between his shoulders, he tapped the dispatches out on the
typewriters with one finger of each hand. He looked asleep. Maybe he was--but no, endlessly, efficiently, the two
machines rattled off line after line, as relentless and effortless as
death itself. There was something about the monotonous movement of the
typewriter keys that fascinated me. I walked over and stood behind his
chair reading over his shoulder the type as it came into being, word
by word. Ah, here was another:

    “Flash Xebico CP

    “There will be no more bulletins from this office. The impossible
    has happened. No messages have come into this room for twenty
    minutes. We are cut off from the outside and even the streets
    below us. “I will stay with the wire until the end. “It is the end, indeed. Since 4 p. m. yesterday the fog has hung
    over the city. Following reports from the sexton of the local
    church, two rescue parties were sent out to investigate conditions
    on the outskirts of the city. Neither party has ever returned nor
    was any word received from them. It is quite certain now that they
    will never return. “From my instrument I can gaze down on the city beneath me. From
    the position of this room on the thirteenth floor, nearly the
    entire city can be seen. Now I can see only a thick blanket of
    blackness where customarily are lights and life. “I fear greatly that the wailing cries heard constantly from the
    outskirts of the city are the death cries of the inhabitants. They
    are constantly increasing in volume and are approaching the center
    of the city. “The fog yet hangs over everything. If possible, it is even
    heavier than before. But the conditions have changed. Instead of
    an opaque, impenetrable wall of odorous vapor, now swirls and
    writhes a shapeless mass in contortions of almost human agony. Now
    and again the mass parts and I catch a brief glimpse of the
    streets below. “People are running to and fro, screaming in despair. A vast
    bedlam of sound flies up to my window, and above all is the
    immense whistling of unseen and unfelt winds. “The fog has again swept over the city and the whistling is coming
    closer and closer. “It is now directly beneath me. “God! An instant ago the mist opened and I caught a glimpse of the
    streets below. “The fog is not simply vapor--it lives. By the side of each
    moaning and weeping human is a companion figure, an aura of
    strange and varicolored hues. How the shapes cling! Each to a
    living thing! “The men and women are down. Flat on their faces. The fog figures
    caress them lovingly. They are kneeling beside them. They are--but
    I dare not tell it. “The prone and writhing bodies have been stripped of their
    clothing. They are being consumed--piecemeal. “A merciful wall of hot, steamy vapor has swept over the whole
    scene. I can see no more. “Beneath me the wall of vapor is changing colors. It seems to be
    lighted by internal fires. No, it isn’t. I have made a mistake. The colors are from above, reflections from the sky. “Look up! Look up! The whole sky is in flames. Colors as yet
    unseen by man or demon. The flames are moving, they have started
    to intermix, the colors rearrange themselves. They are so
    brilliant that my eyes burn, yet they are a long way off. “Now they have begun to swirl, to circle in and out, twisting in
    intricate designs and patterns. The lights are racing each with
    each, a kaleidoscope of unearthly brilliance. “I have made a discovery. There is nothing harmful in the lights. They radiate force and friendliness, almost cheeriness. But by
    their very strength, they hurt. “As I look they are swinging closer and closer, a million miles at
    each jump. Millions of miles with the speed of light. Aye, it is
    light, the quintessence of all light. Beneath it the fog melts
    into a jeweled mist, radiant, rainbow-colored of a thousand varied
    spectrums. “I can see the streets. Why, they are filled with people! The
    lights are coming closer. They are all around me. I am enveloped. I----”

The message stopped abruptly. The wire to Xebico was dead. Beneath my
eyes in the narrow circle of light from under the green lampshade, the
black printing no longer spun itself, letter by letter, across the
page. The room seemed filled with a solemn quiet, a silence vaguely
impressive. Powerful. I looked down at Morgan. His hands had dropped nervelessly at his
sides while his body had hunched over peculiarly. I turned the
lampshade back, throwing the light squarely in his face. His eyes were
staring, fixed. Filled with a sudden foreboding, I stepped beside him
and called Chicago on the wire. After a second the sounder clicked its
answer. Why? But there was something wrong. Chicago was reporting that Wire
Two had not been used throughout the evening. “Morgan!” I shouted. “Morgan! Wake up, it isn’t true. Someone has been
hoaxing us. Why----” In my eagerness I grasped him by the shoulder. It
was only then that I understood. The body was quite cold. Morgan had been dead for hours. Could it be
that his sensitized brain and automatic fingers had continued to
record impressions even after the end?