He heard the spring of the nightlatch close with a loud click. He was about to reach out his hand to find the push-button that operated the electric lights, when, suddenly, his head flew back with a snap and his body became tense.
The silence in the room was suddenly broken by a loud though inarticulate whisper—a loud, jerky, sibilant sound, that departed as abruptly as it had come.
The blood in the Frenchman's veins congealed. He could see nothing. The darkness was so intense that he could almost feel it press against his eye-balls.
Moistening his lips. he waited, with every sense alert, half believing that his ears had deceived him. But no. Almost iminediately the silence was once more broken by a blood-curdling hiss, and, at the same instant Peret felt an ice-cold breath on his cheek.
He shuddered, too paralyzed with fear to move. The hiss, or whisper, seemed to come from in front of him, and in his mind's eye he could see the invisible Thing gathering itself for attack. He shuddered again as It moved around in back of him and, after chilling his fevered cheek with its icy breath, whispered in his ear.
There was nothing human about the whisper: it had an unnatural and ominous sound, and the breath of the unseen Thing, which now fanned his face, was as cold and clammy as the respirations of an animated corpse.
Peret was undoubtedly a brave man. He had the heart of a lion and the strength of many men twice his size. But for once in his life he knew fear—real fear—a terrible, overpowering apprehension of impending danger.
The tragic happenings in the vicinity of Berjet's house were still so fresh in his mind that even his lively imagination could scarcely have lent color to the deadly peril in which he knew he stood. In a flash he recalled everything that Deweese had said about the whispers and the breathing that had preceded the attack of the monstrous Thing, and he remembered the death struggles of the scientist and Dr. Sprague, and their horribly distorted features as they lay stretched out on the pavement at his feet.
Again he heard the agonized scream of the physician and saw his bulging eyes as he battled for his life with the invisible monster.
He wanted to move, to scream, to strike out, to do anything but remain inactive, but, for the moment, he was helpless, for his soul was gripped by the icy fingers of terror. The hair of his head bristled and beads of cold perspiration burst from his brow.
That he stood in the presence of the Whispering Thing—the whispering and respiring supernatural horror that had, but a few short hours before, crushed the life out of the two men whose death he had sworn to avenge—he could not, and did not, for a moment doubt.
This story will be concluded in the next issue of WEIRD TALES. Tell your news dealer to reserve a copy for you.
