




                             Medusa's Coil

                            By Z. B. BISHOP

              _A powerful and compelling tale of brooding
             horror that deepens and broadens to the final
           catastrophe--an unusual and engrossing novelette
                 by the author of "The Curse of Yig. "_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Weird Tales January 1939. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The drive toward Cape Girardeau had been through unfamiliar country;
and as the late afternoon light grew golden and half dream-like
I realized that I must have directions if I expected to reach the
town before night. I did not care to be wandering about these bleak
southern Missouri lowlands after dark, for roads were poor and the
November cold rather formidable in an open roadster. Black clouds, too,
were massing on the horizon; so I looked about among the long gray and
blue shadows that streaked the flat, brownish fields, hoping to glimpse
some house where I might get the needed information. It was a lonely and deserted country, but at last I spied a roof
among a clump of trees near the small river on my right; perhaps a
full half-mile from the road, and probably reachable by some path or
drive upon which I would presently come. In the absence of any nearer
dwelling, I resolved to try my luck there; and was glad when the bushes
by the roadside revealed the ruin of a carved stone gateway, covered
with dry, dead vines and choked with undergrowth which explained why
I had not been able to trace the path across the fields in my first
distant view. I saw that I could not drive the car in; so I parked it
very carefully near the gate--where a thick evergreen would shield it
in case of rain--and got out for the long walk to the house. Traversing that brush-grown path in the gathering twilight I was
conscious of a distinct sense of foreboding, probably induced by the
air of sinister decay hovering about the gate and the former driveway. From the carvings on the old stone pillars I inferred that this place
was once an estate of manorial dignity; and I could clearly see that
the driveway had originally boasted guardian lines of linden trees,
some of which had died, while others had lost their special identity
among the wild scrub growths of the region. As I plowed onward, cockleburrs and stickers clung to my clothes, and
I began to wonder whether the place could be inhabited after all. Was
I tramping on a vain errand? For a moment I was tempted to go back and
try some farm farther along the road, when a view of the house ahead
aroused my curiosity and stimulated my venturesome spirit. There was something provocatively fascinating in the tree-girt,
decrepit pile before me, for it spoke of the graces and spaciousness
of a bygone era and a far more southerly environment. It was a typical
wooden plantation house of the classic, early Nineteenth Century
pattern, with two and a half stories and a great Ionic portico whose
pillars reached up as far as the attic and supported a triangular
pediment. Its state of decay was extreme and obvious: one of the vast
columns having rotted and fallen to the ground, while the upper piazza
or balcony had sagged dangerously low. Other buildings, I judged, had
formerly stood near it. As I mounted the broad stone steps to the low porch and the carved and
four-lighted doorway I felt distinctly nervous, and started to light
a cigarette--desisting when I saw how dry and inflammable everything
about me was. Though now convinced that the house was deserted, I
nevertheless hesitated to violate its dignity without knocking; so I
tugged at the rusty iron knocker until I could get it to move, and
finally set up a cautious rapping which seemed to make the whole
place shake and rattle. There was no response; yet once more I plied
the cumbrous, creaking device, as much to dispel the sense of unholy
silence and solitude as to arouse any possible occupant of the ruin. Somewhere near the river I heard the mournful note of a dove, and it
seemed as if the coursing water itself were faintly audible. Half in
a dream, I seized and rattled the ancient latch, and finally gave the
great six-paneled door a frank trying. It was unlocked, as I could see
in a moment; and though it stuck and grated on its hinges I began to
push it open, stepping through it into a vast shadowy hall as I did so. But the moment I took this step I regretted it. It was not that a
legion of specters confronted me in that dim and dusty hall with the
ghostly Empire furniture, but that I knew at once that the place was
not deserted after all. There was a creaking on the great curved
staircase, and the sound of faltering footsteps slowly descending. Then
I saw a tall, bent figure silhouetted for an instant against the great
Palladian window on the landing. *       *       *       *       *

My first terror was soon over, and as the figure descended the final
flight I was ready to greet the house-holder whose privacy I had
invaded. In the semi-darkness I could see him reach into his pocket
for a match. There came a flare as he lighted a small kerosene lamp
which stood on a rickety console table near the foot of the stairs. The
feeble glow revealed the stooping figure of a very tall, emaciated old
man, disordered in dress and unshaven as to face, yet for all that with
the bearing and expression of a gentleman. I did not wait for him to speak, but at once began to explain my
presence. "You'll pardon my coming in like this, but when my knocking didn't
raise anybody I concluded that no one lived here. I wanted to know the
shortest road to Cape Girardeau. I wanted to get there before dark, but
now, of course----"

As I paused, the man spoke, in exactly the cultivated tone I had
expected, and with a mellow accent as unmistakably Southern as the
house he inhabited. "Rather, you must pardon me for not answering your knock more promptly. I live in a very retired way, and am not usually expecting visitors. At first I thought you were a mere curiosity-seeker. When you knocked
again I started to answer, but I am not well and have to move very
slowly, owing to spinal neuritis--very troublesome case. "As for your getting to town before dark--you can't do that. The road
you are on isn't the best or shortest way. What you must do is to take
the first real road to your left after you leave the gate. There are
three or four cart-paths you can ignore, but you can't mistake the real
road because of the large willow tree on the right just opposite it. "When once you've turned, keep on past two roads and turn to the right
along the third. After that----"

Perplexed by these elaborate directions, confusing indeed to a total
stranger, I could not help interrupting.