Now, if ever, is my chance to break their evil spell. Prayer! But I cannot pray! I am forever banished from the sight of God for calling upon Satan to aid me. But even for that I cannot pray. I am hypnotized by the malefic leer disfiguring the countenance of the Baronet. There is a sinister gleam in the eyes of the four beautiful ghouls. They glide toward me, arms outstretched. Their sinuous, obnoxious forms are before me; their crimson lips curved in a diabolically triumphant smile. I cannot bear to see the soft caress of their tongues on their red lips. I am resisting with all the power of my will, but what is one mere will against an infernal horde of ghouls?

God! Their foul presence taints my very soul! The Baronet is moving forward. His mordacious propinquity casts a reviling sensation of obscenity about me. If I cannot appeal to God, I must implore Satan to grant me time to construct the magic circle.

I cannot tolerate their virulence.… I endeavored to rise but I could not do so.… I am no longer master of my own will! The vampires are leering demoniacally at me.… I am doomed to die … and yet to live forever in the ranks of the Undead.

Their faces are approaching closer to mine and soon I shall sink into oblivion … but anything is better than this … to see the malignant Undead around me … A sharp stinging sensation in my throat … My God…! It is—

The Curse of Everard Maundy

Seabury Quinn

Mort d’un chat! I do not like this!” Jules de Grandin slammed the evening paper down upon the table and glared ferociously at me through the library lamplight.

“What’s up now?” I asked, wondering vaguely what the cause of his latest grievance was. “Some reporter say something personal about you?”

“Parbleu, non, he would better not!” the little Frenchman replied, his round blue eyes flashing ominously. “Me, I would pull his nose and tweak his ears. But it is not of the reporter’s insolence I speak, my friend; I do not like these suicides; there are too many of them.”

“Of course there are,” I conceded soothingly, “one suicide is that much too many; people have no right to—”

“Ah bah!” he cut in. “You do misapprehend me, mon vieux. Excuse me one moment, if you please.” He rose hurriedly from his chair and left the room. A moment later I heard him rummaging about in the cellar.

In a few minutes he returned, the week’s supply of discarded newspapers salvaged from the dustbin in his arms.

“Now, attend me,” he ordered as he spread the sheets out before him and began scanning the columns hastily. “Here is an item from Monday’s Journal:

Two Motorists Die While Driving Cars