




                           The Grisly Horror

                          By ROBERT E. HOWARD

            _A gripping, thrilling tale of a ghastly horror
          that stalked the swamps of the Mississippi--a tale
          of glorious heroism and the hunger of a black god._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Weird Tales February 1935. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _1. The Horror in the Pines_


The silence of the pine woods lay like a brooding cloak about the soul
of Bristol McGrath. The black shadows seemed fixed, immovable as the
weight of superstition that overhung this forgotten back-country. Vague ancestral dreads stirred at the back of McGrath's mind; for he
was born in the pine woods, and sixteen years of roaming about the
world had not erased their shadows. The fearsome tales at which he had
shuddered as a child whispered again in his consciousness; tales of
black shapes stalking the midnight glades....

Cursing these childish memories, McGrath quickened his pace. The dim
trail wound tortuously between dense walls of giant trees. No wonder he
had been unable to hire anyone in the distant river village to drive
him to the Ballville estate. The road was impassable for a vehicle,
choked with rotting stumps and new growth. Ahead of him it bent sharply. McGrath halted short, frozen to immobility. The silence had been broken
at last, in such a way as to bring a chill tingling to the backs of
his hands. For the sound had been the unmistakable groan of a human
being in agony. Only for an instant was McGrath motionless. Then he
was gliding about the bend of the trail with the noiseless slouch of a
hunting panther. A blue snub-nosed revolver had appeared as if by magic in his right
hand. His left involuntarily clenched in his pocket on the bit of paper
that was responsible for his presence in that grim forest. That paper
was a frantic and mysterious appeal for aid; it was signed by McGrath's
worst enemy, and contained the name of a woman long dead. McGrath rounded the bend in the trail, every nerve tense and alert,
expecting anything--except what he actually saw. His startled eyes hung
on the grisly object for an instant, and then swept the forest walls. Nothing stirred there. A dozen feet back from the trail visibility
vanished in a ghoulish twilight, where _anything_ might lurk unseen. McGrath dropped to his knee beside the figure that lay in the trail
before him. It was a man, spread-eagled, hands and feet bound to four pegs driven
deeply in the hard-packed earth; a black-bearded, hook-nosed, swarthy
man. "Ahmed!" muttered McGrath. "Ballville's Arab servant! God!" For it was not the binding cords that brought the glaze to the Arab's
eyes. A weaker man than McGrath might have sickened at the mutilations
which keen knives had wrought on the man's body. McGrath recognized
the work of an expert in the art of torture. Yet a spark of life still
throbbed in the tough frame of the Arab. McGrath's gray eyes grew
bleaker as he noted the position of the victim's body, and his mind
flew back to another, grimmer jungle, and a half-flayed black man
pegged out on a path as a warning to the white man who dared invade a
forbidden land. He cut the cords, shifted the dying man to a more comfortable position. It was all he could do. He saw the delirium ebb momentarily in the
bloodshot eyes, saw recognition glimmer there. Clots of bloody foam
splashed the matted beard. The lips writhed soundlessly, and McGrath
glimpsed the bloody stump of a severed tongue. The black-nailed fingers began scrabbling in the dust. They shook,
clawing erratically, but with purpose, McGrath bent close, tense with
interest, and saw crooked lines grow under the quivering fingers. With
the last effort of an iron will, the Arab was tracing a message in the
characters of his own language. McGrath recognized the name: "Richard
Ballville;" it was followed by "danger," and the hand waved weakly up
the trail; then--and McGrath stiffened convulsively--"_Constance_". One final effort of the dragging finger traced "John De Al----"
Suddenly the bloody frame was convulsed by one last sharp agony; the
lean, sinewy hand knotted spasmodically and then fell limp. Ahmed ibn
Suleyman was beyond vengeance or mercy. McGrath rose, dusting his hands, aware of the tense stillness of the
grim woods around him; aware of a faint rustling in their depths that
was not caused by any breeze. He looked down at the mangled figure
with involuntary pity, though he knew well the foulness of the Arab's
heart, a black evil that had matched that of Ahmed's master, Richard
Ballville. Well, it seemed that master and man had at last met their
match in human fiendishness. But who, or _what_? For a hundred years
the Ballvilles had ruled supreme over this back-country, first over
their wide plantations and hundreds of slaves, and later over the
submissive descendants of those slaves. Richard, the last of the
Ballvilles, had exercised as much authority over the pinelands as any
of his autocratic ancestors. Yet from this country where men had bowed
to the Ballvilles for a century, had come that frenzied cry of fear, a
telegram that McGrath clenched in his coat pocket. *       *       *       *       *

Stillness succeeded the rustling, more sinister than any sound. McGrath
knew he was watched; knew that the spot where Ahmed's body lay was
the invisible deadline that had been drawn for him. He believed that
he would be allowed to turn and retrace his steps unmolested to the
distant village. He knew that if he continued on his way, death would
strike him suddenly and unseen. Turning, he strode back the way he had
come. He made the turn and kept straight on until he had passed another crook
in the trail. Then he halted, listened. All was silent. Quickly he drew
the paper from his pocket, smoothed out the wrinkles and read, again,
in the cramped scrawl of the man he hated most on earth:

    Bristol:

    If you still love Constance Brand, for God's sake forget your hate
    and come to Ballville Manor as quickly as the devil can drive you. RICHARD BALLVILLE. That was all. It reached him by telegraph in that Far Western city
where McGrath had resided since his return from Africa. He would have
ignored it, but for the mention of Constance Brand. That name had sent
a choking, agonizing pulse of amazement through his soul, had sent him
racing toward the land of his birth by train and plane, as if, indeed,
the devil were on his heels. It was the name of one he thought dead for
three years; the name of the only woman Bristol McGrath had ever loved. Replacing the telegram, he left the trail and headed westward, pushing
his powerful frame between the thick-set trees. His feet made little
sound on the matted pine needles. His progress was all but noiseless. Not for nothing had he spent his boyhood in the country of the big
pines.