It
was twilight before I was done, but fear had gone out of the place. The
dampness was less fetid, and all the strange fungi had withered to a
kind of harmless grayish powder which blew ash-like along the floor. One
of earth's nethermost terrors had perished for ever; and if there be a
hell, it had received at last the demon soul of an unhallowed thing. And
as I patted down the last spadeful of mold, I shed the first of the many
tears with which I have paid unaffected tribute to my beloved uncle's
memory. The next spring no more pale grass and strange weeds came up in the
shunned house's terraced garden, and shortly afterward Carrington Harris
rented the place. It is still spectral, but its strangeness fascinates
me, and I shall find mixed with my relief a queer regret when it is torn
down to make way for a tawdry shop or vulgar apartment building. The
barren old trees in the yard have begun to bear small, sweet apples, and
last year the birds nested in their gnarled boughs. [Illustration]




Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _Weird Tales_ October 1937. Extensive
    research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
    this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical
    errors have been corrected without note.