“Ha, almost, I thought, it had done for me at one time, for I forgot it was no living thing I fought and attacked it as if it could be killed. But when I found my sword could not kill that which was already dead, I did cut off its so abominable hand. I am very clever, my friend. The evil spirit reaped small profits from fighting with me.”

He made the boastful admission in all seriousness, entirely unaware of its sound, for to him it was but a straightforward statement of undisputed fact. I grinned in spite of myself, then curiosity got the better of amusement. “What were those little pellets you threw at the spirit when it was luring young Spence to commit suicide, and later at the corpse of Silas Gregory?” I asked.

“Ah”—his elfish smile flickered across his lips, then disappeared as quickly as it came—“it is better you do not ask me that, mon cher. Let it suffice when I tell you I convinced the good Père O ‘Brien that he should let me have what no layman is supposed to touch, that I might use the ammunition of heaven against the forces of hell.”

“But how do we know this Elemental, or whatever it is, won’t come back again?” I persisted.

“Little fear,” he encouraged. “The resort to the dead man’s body was its last desperate chance. Having elected to fight me physically, it must stand or fall by the result of the fight. Once inside the body, it could not quickly extricate itself. Half an hour, at least, must elapse before it could withdraw, and before that time had passed, I had fixed it there for all time. The stake through the heart and the severed head makes that body as harmless as any other, and the wicked spirit which animated it must remain with the flesh it sought to pervert to its own evil ends henceforth and forever.”

“But—”

“Ah bah!” He dropped his cigarette end into his empty coffee cup and yawned frankly. “We do talk too much, my friend. This night’s work has made me heavy with sleep. Let us take a tiny sip of cognac, that the pie may not give us unhappy dreams, and then to bed. Tomorrow is another day, and who knows what new task lies before us?”

The Tomb

H.P. Lovecraft

“Sedibus ut saltem placidis in morte quiescam.” —Virgil