on hands and knees; something with long nails or claws that rasped and scraped. There was something croaking and chuckling as it moved through the cellar dark; something that wheezed with bestial, sickening laughter, like the death-rattle in die throat of a plague-stricken corpse.
Oh, how slyly it crept—how slowly, cautiously, and sinisterly! I could hear it slinking in the shadows, and my fingers raced at their work, even while my brain grew numb.
Traffic between tombs and a wizard's house—traffic with things the old wives say can never die.
Regetti snored on.
What bides below, in caverns, that can be invoked by the proper spell—or the sight of prey?
Creep.
And then...
Regetti awoke. I heard him scream, once. He didn't even have time to get up or draw his gun. There was a demoniac scurrying across the floor, as if made by a giant rat. Then the faint sound of shredding flesh, and over all, a sudden ghoulish baying that conjured up worlds of nightmare horror in my shattered brain.
Above the howling came a series of low, almost animal moans, and agonized phrases in Italian, cries for mercy, prayers, curses.
Claws make no sound as they sink into flesh, and yellow fangs are silent till they grate on bone. . . .
My left leg was free, then my right. Now I slashed at the rope around my waist. Suppose it came in here?
The baying ceased, but the silence was haggard with horror.
There are some banquets without toasts. . . .
And now, once again, moans. My spine shivered. All around me the shadows grinned, for outside was revelry as in the olden days. Revelry, and a thing that moaned, and moaned, and moaned.
Then I was loose. As the moaning died away in the darkness, I cut the final strands of rope that bound me to my chair. . . .
I did not leave at once, for there were still sounds in the other room which I did not like; sounds which caused my soul to shrivel, and my sanity to succumb before a nameless dread.
I heard that pawing and padding rustle along the floor, and after the shrieking had ceased, a worse noise took its place—a burbling noise—as if someone or something was sucking marrow from a bone. And the terrible, clicking sound; the feeding sound of gigantic teeth. . . .
Yes, I waited; waited until the crunching had mercifully ceased, and then waited on until the rustling slithered back into the cellar, and disappeared. When I heard the brazen clang of a rusty door grate in the distance, I felt safe.
It was then that I left at last; passing through the now- deserted cellar, up the stairs, and out unguarded doors into the silver security of a moonlit night. It was very good to see the street-lights again, and hear the trolleys rumble from afar. My taxi took me to the precinct station, and after I had told my story the police did the rest.
I told my story, but I did not mention the iron door against the hillside. That I saved for the ears of the Government men. Now they can do what they like about it, since I am far away. But I did not want anybody prying around too closely to that door while I remained in the city, because even now I cannot—dare not—say what might lurk behind it. The hillside leads to the graveyard, and the graveyard to places far beneath. And in olden days there was a curious traffic betwixt tomb and tunnel and a wiz-
