Over
all a shadow seemed to fall, and yet when he glanced upward he saw that
the full moon stood directly overhead. Shaking off the sense of dread which closed upon him, he started up
the lichen-covered slope. But now the ewe sank upon its forelegs and
he was obliged to drag it inch by inch toward the circle of megaliths. He rather welcomed the exertion however, for it freed his mind of the
nameless fear which the cromlech aroused in him. By the time he had dragged the sheep alongside the ring of boulders, he
was nearly exhausted, but he dared not pause to rest, for he knew that
delay would be his undoing. He already had a wild desire to leave the
ewe and rush back through the toad-infested swamp to the familiar outer
world. Quickly slipping off the sheep's tether, he bound its legs firmly
together and with a tremendous heave shoved it onto the rust-colored
sacrificial slab. Rejecting an almost uncontrollable impulse to flee, he unsheathed the
hunting knife which he carried and drew from his pocket the curious
bound manuscript book, "True Magik" by Theophilis Wenn. He had no difficulty in locating the strangely sinister seventh
incantation, for in the bright moonlight the unusual bluish-grey ink in
which the characters were inscribed seemed actually luminous. Holding the book in one hand and the knife ready in the other, he began
to repeat the jumble of unintelligible sounds. As he read, the syllables appeared to exert some unearthly influence
upon him, so that his voice rose to a savage howl, a high-pitched
inhuman ululation which penetrated to the farthest depths of the swamp. At intervals his voice sank to low gutturals or a thin sibilant hiss. And then, at the last enunciation of the oft-repeated word, "Nyogtha",
there reached his ears as from a vast distance a sound like the rushing
of a mighty wind, although not even a leaf stirred on the surrounding
trees. The book suddenly darkened in his hand and he saw that a shadow had
fallen across the page. He glanced up--and madness reeled in his brain. Squatting on the edge of the slab was a shape which lived in nightmare,
a squamous taloned thing like a monstrous gargoyle or a malformed toad
which stared at him out of questing red eyes. He froze in horror and a sudden rage flamed in the thing's eyes. It
thrust out its neck and an angry hiss issued from its mottled beak. Emmet Telquist was galvanized into action. He knew what the thing
wanted--life blood. Raising the knife, he advanced and was about to plunge it downward
into the sheep when a new horror seized him. The ewe was already dead. The unspeakable presence which squatted
beside it had already claimed it. It had died of fright. Its eyes were
glazed and there was no indication that it still breathed. Remembering Theophilis Wenn's warning, "beware lest the beaste be
dead", Emmet Telquist stood like a stone statue with the knife still
upraised in his hand. Then he dropped it and ran. Darting between two menhirs, he plunged down the knoll and raced toward
the swamp trail. Lifting its scaly neck, the presence on the slab looked after him and
finally, hissing in fury, bounded off the stone and leaped in pursuit. One terrible shriek rang out and presently the thing hopped back onto
the slab, holding in its bloody beak a dangling lifeless form, a
fitting sacrifice. KILLER CAT


It had occurred to him quite suddenly and he had acted on the impulse
before there was time to ponder the matter. He had the little paper open and was slipping the barbital powder into
a glass when the idea first came to him. For a half minute he just
stood there while his heart beat faster. Then he dumped in three more
of the powders and walked to the bedroom where his Aunt Martha lay
softly moaning. She swallowed the drug without even opening her eyes
and one hour later she was dead. It was as simple as that. Dr. Myerbron assured him that her heart had given out, showed no
surprise and even hinted that he had expected her demise long before. Dennis Stonegate was no calloused murderer. Far from it. After the
funeral when he had finally moved into his aunt's house for good, he
assured himself on that point. He had, he told himself, acted through mercy. His aunt was suffering;
Dr. Myerbron had tacitly admitted more than once that she would not
recover; and certainly a few weeks or even months could make little
difference to the semi-conscious invalid. Better to relieve her of
suffering rather than permit her to linger and perhaps undergo worse
tortures later on when her last powers of resistance were spent. He repeated this to himself so often he finally came to believe it. But secretly he knew otherwise. Some small insistent chamber in his
brain kept whispering the truth. The truth was he had grown tired of
waiting. At first all seemed to go well. Now that he was relieved of a certain
measure of responsibility, he began to enjoy life. Of course, for a
time, he had to put on a sober countenance when he left the house in
the morning. And he had to act properly subdued on certain occasions. But that was easy enough. He even prided himself a little on his acting
ability. Sometimes he played the part so well he could feel himself
becoming melancholy. And then he would laugh, struck by the irony of
the situation. His Aunt Martha had never meant very much to him. She
had merely been an obstacle to be removed. The first time the cat annoyed him he dismissed the incident without
further thought. It was a big black Persian with a silky plume of a
tail and luminous yellow eyes and it had been his aunt's favorite pet
for years. One night after he had mashed some sardines in its dish, he became
irritated when, instead of running up to eat, it drew back and spit at
him. But he merely shrugged and went back to the paper. The next day it again refused to eat. He speculated, idly, assumed that
it was undergoing a disorder, or distemper, or whatever it was that
cats undergo, and forgot the matter. A week or so later however, the cat's actions began to annoy him. He
remembered then that so far as he could recall it had eaten almost
nothing he had set out for it since his aunt's death. Even then, the affair did not really bother him much. It was just an
irritant in the back of his mind. Nevertheless, some time later he had an experience which definitely
upset him. There was certainly nothing very unusual about it--and he
felt a little like a fool at times when he realized how he permitted
the incident to prey on him. He had gone to bed late and had had a vague but unpleasant dream. It
seemed that he was lying somewhere in the darkness unable to move,
pinned down by a deadly paralysis, a smothering weight. He awoke
suddenly drenched with sweat and saw two yellow eyes staring into
his own. For just a moment he was on the verge of a scream; then he
remembered the cat and felt at once relieved and rather angry.