Weird Tales/Volume 1/Issue 4/The Cauldron

by Preston Langley Hickey

The Cauldron

True Adventures of Terror

CONDUCTED BY

PRESTON LANGLEY HICKEY

WHILE most of the material in WEIRD TALES is, of course, fiction, we are of the belief that there are innumerable persons who have lived through experiences as weird, terrible and horrifying as anything ever chronicled by a fictionist. This belief, and the fact that WEIRD TALES deals exclusively with the bizarre and unusual, has resulted in the establishment of THE CAULDRON. Readers who have had a hand in strange adventures, or who have been victims of experiences of a startling and terrifying nature, are cordially-invited to send accounts of them to THE CAULDRON. A concrete idea of what is desired may be ascertained by reading this month's contributions. Manuscripts may be as horrible and hair-raising as it is in the power of the author to make them, but they must be clean from a moral standpoint. Those accepted will be paid for at our usual rate. Tell your story clearly and briefly. Double-spaced, typewritten manuscripts are preferred, but those in long hand will be considered if legibly written. No manuscript. will be returned unless accompanied by a stamped and self addressed envelope.

THE GHOST OF DEATH

Editor of The Cauldron: There are those who are as firmly convinced in the existence of ghosts as they are that day follows night. I have heard intelligent men and women discuss ghosts seriously and tell of this and that spiritualistic seance that they attended where, before their very eyes, misty forms of long departed dead have been materialized before their very eyes. To me all this appears more or less ridiculous. During the past fifteen years I have made a very thorough study of the "phenomena" of spiritualism, and my findings have resulted in my becoming skeptical on this subject. It is because of my emphatic disbelief in the supernatural, as far as its direct relation to human man is concerned, that I submit the following as one of the most inexplicable and terrifying things that has ever occurred to me:

During the summer of 1906, my wife and I were residing in the township of North Lamoine, Maine, a fishing village situated on Frenchman's Bay, an arm of the Atlantic which extends some miles inland. Our first born, then twenty months old, had not been well for some time, and we thought perhaps a summer in the open country close to the sea would be beneficial.

For a time the little one appeared to rally, but failed to put on the weight or to assume the healthy look that a normal baby of her age should. Then came a day when my wife struck terror to my heart by telling me that she had a premonition that something would happen—that the child would not live.

I scoffed at the notion and cheered her as best I could, but there was a great weight on my heart. I had begun to feel the same way, and the fact that my wife mentioned it only intensified my grief.

Just two days after this conversation there occurred the manifestation of which I write. My work kept me up later than usual, and it was not until after midnight that I finally retired. Worn out as I was from the activities of the day, and though late the hour, it was some time before I could compose myself to sleep.

The baby, who slept with my wife at the other end of the room, moaned. A heavy electrical storm raged outside—the wind lashing the rain against the window panes in unabating fury—and my thoughts were in a turmoil.

Finally I began to doze and, I believe, was about to fall asleep when, with a start, I found myself staring wide eyed at the ceiling. No one had spoken, and, save for the baby's moans and the storm, there had been no sound, but something had impelled me to open my eyes. A moment later a cold perspiration broke out over my body.

At first, nothing was visible and then, ever in the almost pitch darkness of the room, s filmy though strangely luminous grayish white object began to take form close to the ceiling just above my wife's bed. It became clearer and clearer until finally it moved.

As rigid as a marble statue I lay. Though not exactly afraid, to have saved my life I don't believe I could have moved at that moment. Gradually this indescribable object began to settle over the other bed. Just as it seemed to merge itself with the faint whiteness of the covers, the baby cried out, to be followed an instant later by a piercing scream from my wife.

"Back! back!" she gasped. "No! no! you shall not! For God's sake back!"

I remained motionless but an instant, long enough, however, to see the specter gather itself into a compact form, flash upward and disappear. Then, with a mighty effort, I pulled myself together and bounded out of bed.

"Oh," my wife cried, sitting up, "did you see it?"

"See what, dear?" I asked.

"Just now something white seemed to come down, with arms outstretched, as if to take little Helen away. I am sure I was not asleep."

"You must have been," I answered. "I was wide awake all along and did not see anything. The room is quite empty."

"Ugh," she shuddered, "what a terrible dream!"

There was no sleep for me the rest of that night. For hours I sat in the living-room, trying to fathom the mystery that I had beheld. I knew it could not have been imagination, for my wife had seen it also. There was no accounting for it.

And I am just as much in the dark now as I was then. God only knows what it was that my wife and I saw that night! Perhaps it was a matriculated spirit from the Valley of Death, after all.

In any event, Baby Helen died the next day. OWEN KING.

Editor of The Cauldron: During the street car strike in Denver in 1919, I was a reporter on the Times. On the night when the strikers and "Black Jack" Jerome's "breakers" met in deadly conflict, I was assigned to the East Denver barns, in which Jerome's men were fortified.

Toward midnight, the strikers stormed en masse and, during the melée, I dropped with a bullet in my chest. Regaining consciousness, I found myself in the City Hospital. Kneeling beside my bed was my wife—Estelle. I tried to move.

"Lie still, dear," she said, rising. "You must keep very quiet. They are going to probe for the bullet."

Upon reaching the operating room, the ether instantly choked me into unconsciousness, Then occurred the strangest thing I have ever experienced. I seemed suddenly transported into a great hall, will tall, shining pillars. All around me were people clothed in white. From afar came the sound of soft music.

But what attracted me was a raised section at one end on which sat a benevolent-looking old gentleman. In his eyes there seemed to be all the sorrow and suffering of a wicked world's countless centuries. He beckoned to me. When I had come before him he spoke, and in his voice there was the golden ring of perfectly tuned chimes.

"My son," he said, "you have been brought to judgment. At present yon are no longer a part of the earth's sphere. Back there science is fighting for your life. Whether science succeeds is determined by this court of justice. What have you to say for yourself?"

I trembled and became afraid. Where was, I? Was I dead and in some spiritual sphere far removed from the earth?

Then I spoke. I recall, distinctly, that I rambled on at great length, attempting to make a good impression. As I spoke he listened intently, occasionally nodding his head slowly and sadly.

When I finished, he resumed:

"Words and actions mean nothing here," he said. "In passing judgment we consider only motives. They are everything. Remember that. It is the motives behind all actions that are important."

So saying, he turned to an aged men, who was writing in a book, and asked: "Any prayers?"

"Yes, a young woman kneels at his bed."

"You shall return to earthly existence for a time then," the judge said, raising his hands. "Heed well my words."

Then I saw a great light swell from some invisible source, and, as I looked, there seemed to be ragged scars in his palms that ran red.

When finally I opened my eyes I was again in my little bed, with Estelle and the doctor standing by. Eventually I recovered from my serious wound.

The weird vision that I had while on the operating table, though, has always been a great mystery to me. Dreams are nothing unusual for me, but this was so entirely different from anything that I have ever experienced before! I have spoken of it many times and to many people. They have not laughed, but have listened in astonishment.

What was it, I wonder? Was it the effect of the anesthetic upon my weakened system? Was it the wild distortion of my brain or, when life is flickering on the brink of eternity, are we actually brought face to face with our Creator? Will this question ever be answered in life? I wonder!

OTIS TREVOR.

THE DEATH PLUNGE

Editor of The Cauldron: I am an expert riveter. When beams are hoisted into place on buildings I hang suspended in space on a swinglike seat and rivet the sections together. Had I followed any other pursuit I probably would never have had the distinction of being the only man to fall twelve stories and live. It was during the construction of an eighteen story bank building that I experienced this extraordinary adventure.

I was working in front on the twelfth story. At this particular time I was directly under the crane which hoisted the great girders. Happening to glance down, I saw an exceptionally large load coming up. There were five. It is seldom that more than three are hoisted at once. I watched them ascend, interested in the process of landing so many. When they had almost reached the level of the fifteenth story, the roof-man gave the signal to slow down, Mistaking his motions, the crane operator pulled his reverse and the great beams swung inward.

Seeing that a collision between the front of the structure and the beams was unavoidable, I attempted to get out of the way in the event anything happened. I was not quick enough. With a crash, the girders smashed into the building right over the heavy rope from which I hung, cutting it as though it were string.

Things happened so fast then that my memory of them is confused, Instantly I was precipitated downward. I do not know what sensations a drowning man experiences, but have heard that a whole life time is flashed across the victim's mind. That is just what happened in my case. Everything I ever did came before me in those terrifying moments.

Though stricken with horror, I tried to keep my mind clear. Far below me I could see clusters of people gazing at me, horror stricken, as I fell, turning over and over.

In a moment's time I was within four stories of the pavement. My breath was almost gone. Insane with the thought of the terrible fate that awaited me, I shut my eyes. Then, with a great roaring in my ears, I struck, and, though almost dead, knew that it wasn't the street. For an instant I was aware of great pain and then . . . nothingness.

Within an hour I had regained consciousness, Fate was with me that day. Just as I fell a big open truck, piled high with cardboard boxes, had stopped beneath me. In this I landed; my fall was broken by these boxes, and I escaped a most horrible death.

Upon examination, it was found that I suffered four fractured ribs, a compound fracture of the left leg, two breaks in my right arm and a break in my left wrist in addition to severe cuts about the body and head. That is my story. I call it a narrow escape.

JOHN BURKHOLZ.