Chapter XV: Part 15

In desperation, I rolled from the slab and rose trembling to my feet. The noise attracted the crazed being. He turned and faced me.

His features were distorted into a horrible grin. His sharp, cruel teeth gnashed as if in expectation of a bloody feast. He leaped at me, clearing the slab, on which I had lain, at one bound.

I was too weak to dodge, but I tried grimly to clinch with him, as I had seen groggy boxers do when they were sparring for time. I was in his arms. His eyes blazed not a foot from mine. Foam flecked his mouth. His weight pressed against me. It grew heavier and heavier.

Then my overwrought nerves gave way, and I became unconscious.

* * * * *

When I awoke I was outside in the cool night air. Chic was bathing my brow with muddy water from a roadside pool. The madman had collapsed at the same moment as I had. In a daze, Chic had laid him again on the slab and had dragged me from the building.

Poor Peter we forgot, until he was found the next morning, haggard, white-haired and unable to utter an intelligible word.

Too vivid an imagination, wrought into a frenzy by the uncanny surroundings, was the way the doctors diagnosed his strange case. Chic and I were too dazed to shatter the theory.

As for the madman, he had really died, after the short spell of suspended animation and temporary revival. I know this because his gaunt skeleton was one of the principal decorations at our graduation dance.

But, even with this assurance, I sometimes wake at night in a cold sweat, and feel for the butt of the revolver under my pillow.

Arrest Woman Accused of Witchcraft

Popular rumors of a sorceress in the Logan Square district of Chicago led to the arrest of Mrs. Emily Elhert for practising medicine without a license. The woman styled herself a spiritualist and claimed the ability to heal any disease. She would make mysterious passes over her patients, and applied an evil-smelling salve, the composition of which is not known. Each visit cost the patient two dollars, and Mrs. Elhert is said to have made very good money until the police interfered with her career.

_An Electrocution, Vividly Described By An Eye Witness_

THE CHAIR

_By_ DR. HARRY E. MERENESS

_Former Physician at Sing Sing Prison_

Dr. Harry E. Mereness, who wrote this realistic description
of an electrocution, was attending physician at Sing Sing
Prison for six years, and during that period he attended, in
his official capacity, sixty-seven executions in the Electric
Chair—a record that has never been equaled. Among the many
noted executions he witnessed were those of Lieut. Becker of
the New York Police Department and the four gunmen in the
Rosenthal case. Prior to their death, he attended the prisoners
in the condemned cells.

“The average prisoner, approaching the moment of execution,”
says Dr. Mereness, “is in a mental haze or wild delirium
produced by the fear of death. In two instances, however, this
was lacking. Both men, after being strapped in the chair, said:
‘Good-by, Doc!’”

The minute hand on my watch indicates 5:44 a. m. I am standing in a direct line with the chair.

My gaze is directed to the left side of the room and down a short, narrow, heavily-walled corridor that forms the communication between the condemned cells and the execution chamber. There are a number of guards standing quietly about, and on my right, back of a rope stretched across the room, sit the witnesses.

There is a tension in the very air of the chamber. Absolute quiet prevails. A few seconds pass, eternally long they are.

Then comes a sound—a muffled “Good-by, all.” The sound reaches the ears of the witnesses, and involuntarily they straighten up on their stools; there is some scuffling of feet, and one witness, possibly a trifle more nervous than the rest, clears his throat. Everyone is now keenly alert.

I hear the chant of the priest—the response of the condemned man—the low, quavering and broken response, “Have mercy on me.”

The little procession now enters the corridor. I see the condemned man—stocking-footed, and with his right trouser leg flapping, grimly ludicrous, for it has been slit up to the knee in order to facilitate the application of the leg electrode. He is between the deputy warden and his assistant, each supporting an arm as they slowly enter the death chamber.

At the sight of the fateful and fatal chair, the condemned man involuntarily shrinks back, but the guards are prepared for this, and their hold becomes a little firmer. There is no halt in their step, and but five paces away, inanimate, portentous and ominous—the chair!

After the first sight—after that sharp, quivering intake of breath—the gaze of the condemned man shifts about the room. His expression haunts one. You feel that it is both all-seeing and unseeing. The fear of death—a definite emotion—is here portrayed in a fashion that but few have beheld. There is utter finality in that look.

His eyes rest upon you. You feel that he sees you, but that you are simply one of the images in the general make-up of the last picture that is conveyed to his brain. There is no recognition in the glance—just a vague, hopeless and apparently vacant stare, but one which you feel discerns the sharp outlines of the persons and objects in the room, without recognizing features or details.

To me, that quick survey of his surroundings, that final glance of the unfortunate being on the very threshold of his meeting with his God, is the most harrowing of all the gruesome details connected with the administration of man-made Law’s decree.

My watch indicates 5:45 a. m. The condemned man is seated in the Chair. The guards work quickly, two at either side and one at the head of the Chair. The arm straps are buckled fast, the leg straps next, then the face strap, which has an opening for the chin, and the upper part of which mercifully blindfolds the eyes.

The cap, a soft, pliable thing made of a fine copper mesh and lined with sponge, which has been moistened in salt water, is placed upon the head and moulded to fit its contour. To a binding-post on the cap is adjusted the heavy wire that conveys the terrific current from the dynamo in a distant part of the prison. To the bare right leg, another electrode is applied and connected up.

A full minute has elapsed since I heard the “Good-by, all.” The guards have completed their task. My notes now read: “Entered 5:44:10. Chair and strapped 5:45:00.”

“Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world have mercy on me,” chants the priest. And: “Have mercy on me,” comes the broken, almost inaudible and inarticulate response.

I retain my position, note-book and watch in my left hand. I am standing on the right side of, and in the same direct line with, the Chair. The Chair and its occupant, the electrician and myself, form a right angle. I occupy the angle, for at the ends of the lines, which make up that angle, are the two things that demand my undivided attention—the electrician and the condemned. From my point of vantage I can see them both. My eyes are on the condemned man.

I feel the eyes of the electrician upon me. I have a new, bright yellow pencil—freshly sharpened. It is quite necessary for my notes. I hold it vertically on my note-book, and watch the occupant of the Chair. The overwhelming mental tension, coupled with the knowledge of the proximity of death, has a fearsome reaction upon the Chair’s victim. With each rapid inspiration, there is a slight elevation of the shoulders, and as expiration takes place the shoulders sag. This is the very instant I have awaited—the lungs are practically free from air. I dip my pencil quickly from the vertical toward the horizontal.

There is a sudden _click_, the body in the Chair straightens, and from the mouth comes a low, sibilant _hiss_; the straps creak, and you feel that if the straps should break the body would be catapulted over the rope and amidst the witnesses.

For ten seconds the high current of eighteen hundred and fifty volts and eight to nine amperes is on; then, for forty seconds, the voltage is dropped to two hundred.

During this period the body sags perceptibly; at the end of forty seconds the current is again increased, and the body again straightens and strains against the straps. After the final ten seconds of the fatal minute, the current is switched off.

The body in the Chair actually shrinks before your very eyes! I step up to the Chair; a guard tears open the shirt and bares the chest. As I place my stethoscope over the heart I am conscious that the body is intensely hot. I know from experience that the heat generated by the rapidity of the passage of the current has raised the temperature from sub-normal to between 120 and 130 degrees.

I hear a racing, tumultuous _rat-a-tat-tat_—possibly I can count the heart beats. I lift the face strap, and with thumb and forefinger separate the lids. The eyes are glazed, but the pupils are small. I feel the great arteries in the neck. I continue to get a pulsation that tells me that the vital forces have not yet ceased.

My notes now read: “First contact—one minute—5:45:10—5:46:10.”

I step off the rubber mat and nod to the electrician; the current is again thrown on, this time for five seconds. When I now listen over the heart, I am reminded of a clock that is running down; the heart beats are fainter—they become slower—they commence to skip—I fail to feel the pulsation in the neck—there is a heavier glaze over the eyes—the pupils, small and contracted a moment before, are now widely dilated. The head rests on the shoulders, and the face is directed toward the chandelier with its many lights, but there is no reaction of the pupil as the bright light strikes the eye—it remains wide and big. The muscles of the face are set, and saliva drools from the angles of the mouth.

I again place my stethoscope upon the chest, but no sound reaches my ear. I listen for five—for ten—for twenty seconds. There is nothing; all the vital reactions have disappeared.

Physicians among the witnesses are invited to listen; they take their time, for there is no reason for hurry now. After the last one finishes I make a final examination. It is as before—nothing.

My notes now state: “Second contact—5 seconds—5:47:00. Pronounced dead at 5:52:00.”

I turn toward the Warden and say, “I pronounce this man dead.”

The law has been obeyed.

The general attitude of tenseness is relieved. The guards quickly unbuckle the straps and carry the body to the autopsy room, and after placing it upon the stone-topped table begin to remove the clothes. The hum of conversation becomes general. The witnesses are departing.

I commence the autopsy, feeling that my report will be, “Autopsy upon the body of ⸺ No. ⸺, convicted of murder, first degree and today executed at this prison, showed all organs and tissues to be normal.”

As I begin my long sweeping incision, the thought always strikes me: “This must also be done because it is the Law,” and the invariable question comes, “Is it really the Law, or is it to insure the carrying out of the Law?”

In other words, if the Chair fails, the post mortem succeeds.

* * * * *

There is little left to tell. The evening papers will state that “So-and-so, convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to death, was electrocuted at Sing Sing Prison early this morning.” They will rehearse the grewsome history of the crime and will tell how the murderer, with firm step, entered the execution chamber at 5:44:10 a. m., and was strapped in the chair at 5:45:00 a. m.

These details are quite correct. I can vouch for them, for I let the reporters take my notes, which are official, and they copy the data and embody it in their stories.

They invariably dress up the “first contact,” however, so their stories read about like this, “At 5:45:10 Warden Blank threw the switch, pressed the button, or dropped his handkerchief, as a signal” (it is always one of these three).

Well, I’m rather glad that they credit it to the Warden, and I really feel better that I and my new, bright yellow pencil, freshly sharpened, have been overlooked.

Rare Music Disappears Mysteriously

Caslav Albrecht, a Chicago violinist, recently made a trip to Europe and brought back about thirty-five rare pieces of violin manuscript, which cannot be duplicated. Many of the compositions were original copies and the whole is valued at $5,000. The music disappeared at a party given by Frank Steiner, another musician, which Albrecht attended. He says he had the music with him when he came, and left it in the cloak-room during the festivities, and that it was gone when he was ready to leave for home. Although Albrecht was sure the manuscripts were merely mislaid, no trace of them could be found.

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, even in the almost pitch darkness of the room, a 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, with 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 you 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 man, 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 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.

THE EYRIE

The time has come to talk of cats and Chinamen, and rattlesnakes and skulls—and why it is these things abound in yarns for WEIRD TALES. Particularly cats and Chinamen. Believe it or not, every second manuscript we open (and that’s placing the average rather low) is concerned with one or the other, or both, of these.

Why is this? Is it because a cat and a Chinaman suggest the mysticism of the Orient, and thus seem excellent “props” for weird fiction? Or is it merely because both mind their own business, imperturbably pursue their destinies, and thereby create the impression that there’s some deep-laid mystery here? We ask you that.

Whatever the reason, it’s an odd and curious fact that when an author sets out to tell a weird tale his mind turns, as if instinctively, to cats and Chinamen. And then, for good measure, he not infrequently throws in a few rattlesnakes and a skull or two.

Sometimes the result is interesting. And sometimes it is awful! And again, sometimes, it is a ludicrous thing, unconsciously funny.

We have no prejudices against Chinese characters in fiction, and we have none whatever against cats. For that matter, we haven’t any prejudices of any sort. We’ve published a good many stories about Chinese, and quite a large number about cats, and not a few that featured skulls and rattlesnakes. You’ll find some in this June issue.

But we didn’t accept those stories because of the aforementioned features, nor yet in spite of them. We accepted them solely because they were GOOD stories. We observe one rule, and one rule only, in selecting stories for your entertainment. We think we’ve mentioned this before, but we’ll say again that our only requirement is: The thing MUST be interesting!

If a story interests us it will likewise interest others, or so we believe. And if it doesn’t—Thumbs Down! And it doesn’t matter a good gosh darn whether the hero, or villain, has yellow skin and oblique eyelids, or flaxen hair and sky-blue eyes, or whether or not a green-eyed cat howls atop a grinning skull. The story’s the thing!

All the same, though, we would like to know why all these cats and Chinamen are slinking mysteriously through our manuscripts. We read eight before breakfast this morning (chosen quite at random), and we hope to die if there wasn’t a Chinaman in every last one of them!

* * * * *

And still the letters pour in from delighted readers—plenty of them! Manifestly, it is quite impossible to print more than a fractional part of them here, but we can’t refrain from quoting at least three that concern Paul Suter’s story, “Beyond the Door,” which appeared in the April WEIRD TALES.

We take it you remember this story and will therefore be interested in these comments. The first letter comes from R. E. Lambert, secretary of the Washington Square College of New York University, New York, and reads as follows:

“Dear sir: Just as Woodrow Wilson used to say during his most
trying days in the presidency that when he wanted to get his
mind completely off his work he would turn to a detective
story, so I turn for my own relaxation to the horror story.

“I suppose it would take exhaustive questioning by a
psychoanalyst to discover why this sort of literature appeals
to me, but the fact is it does so appeal. While there are
hundreds of others like me in this respect, I doubt whether
the number is great enough to make such a venture as yours a
considerable financial success—therefore, the more praise to
you for your courage in launching WEIRD TALES.

“What particularly impelled me to write this letter is the
story in the current issue, entitled ‘Beyond the Door.’
One reason why I single this one from such a congeries of
thrilling, weird tales is that, with all its mystery and
suggestion of the supernatural, the dénouement and everything
that leads up to it are discovered at the end to be logically
and physically ‘possible.’ So often, in mystery stories, we
are called upon to accept much that simply is not naturally
possible, and we turn from them, duly horrified, but
unpersuaded that the tale is more than a figment of a morbid
imagination.

“From the standpoint of construction, I have read few stories
that so faithfully adhere to the trinity of short story
tradition—unity, coherence and mass. Especially on the score of
unity, the most important of the trinity, do I find this tale
worthy of much praise. Not a situation, not a paragraph, nor
a sentence, but which has a direct bearing on the unfoldment
of the plot. And I find no single instance where the choice of
words seems to have resulted from a straining for effect. Of
how many stories, whether horrific or any other kind, can this
truly be said?

“Then, too, very few tales are really brought home to the
reader’s own intimate experience of life. Yet here we shudder
at the terrors created by a guilty conscience, and approve,
while we shudder, of the terrible punishment that is meted out
for the wrong-doing. How very real it thus becomes to all of us!

“Finally, the author dares to do, and admirably succeeds in
doing, what so few writers of fiction attempt—and mostly bungle
when they do attempt. I refer to the linking of his story in
the closing paragraphs to man’s inevitable, age-old uncertainty
as to what is to come in the hereafter. This alone elevates
‘Beyond the Door’ out of the ordinary run of fiction.

“Here’s wishing you a well-merited success!”

The next one was written by Rev. Andrew Wallace MacNeill, minister of the Bethlehem Congregational Church, International Falls, Minnesota:

“Gentlemen: I have read with much interest and pleasure the
April number of your new magazine, which I believe will make
a distinctive and acceptable place for itself in magazine
literature.

“I am particularly interested in the story by a new writer,
Paul Suter, ‘Beyond the Door’ proving exceptionally appealing
and gripping. I hope you will publish more work by this writer,
as I believe if he maintains the standard of this story your
readers will make quite a popular response.”

And the third letter, which arrived in the same mail that brought the first two, came from the author himself:

“Dear Mr. Baird: I take it that even editors enjoy an
occasional pat on the back, in the midst of the many
black looks they receive, so I am presuming to express my
appreciation of the way in which you printed my story, ‘Beyond
the Door,’ in your April issue.

“There is a story which might easily have been rendered
monotonous by unintelligent press work—because the effect of
slowly undermining horror, which I had to attain, is akin to
monotony. You avoided that pitfall by change of type—and (this
to me is the remarkable thing) I can tell by the way in which
you ran in those changes that you got absolutely every subtle
suggestion which I concealed in that story—and I buried quite
a lot of them there. You must have read my manuscript with a
microscope. May I take the liberty of expressing my opinion
that as an editor you are emphatically THERE?

“Cordially yours,

“J. Paul Suter.”

We almost dislike to print this last one—it’s too much like pinning a medal on our coat—but we can plead, in extenuation, that the excellence of Mr. Suter’s story was not due to our editing, or printer’s directions, or anything of the sort, but solely to his splendid craftsmanship. He wrote a good story and we published it, and no amount of editing could have made it any better.

If you failed to read “Beyond the Door” we earnestly recommend that you do so now. In either case, don’t miss his next story. It is called “The Guard of Honor,” and is fully as “creepy” as the first—and you will find it in the next issue of WEIRD TALES.

Suter is a coming writer. No doubt of that. And since he tells us, “I would rather write horror stories than anything else,” we hope to publish the best of his work.

* * * * *

We’ve ransacked a bale of Letters to the Editor in an effort to find some not sweet with praise! and we’ve found only two, and here they are:

“Dear sir: I have purchased two copies of your new magazine,
have read the stories, and also the praise liberally supplied
by friends and readers. I think it is time to offer a few words
of criticism, since applause and praise of this kind does
not mean much. The public lauds any new effort; it applauds
anything, even moving pictures.

“The stories you have printed so far can be grouped under
three general headings: Ghost Stories, Snake Stories, Insanity
Stories. In your first issue you printed a story called ‘Ooze’
which approached the type of semi-scientific stories that are
liked intensely by all those who are fond of the unusual,
and if you would publish at least one story of this type in
each issue of your magazine I am sure that your efforts would
register larger sales.”—Conrad A. Brandt, 563 West 150th Street
New York City.

“My dear Mr. Baird: At last it arrived—that second volume. If
you play that slow trick again on us we shall send one of our
aviators to Chicago to get the so strenuously desired copy.

“Allow me to tell you which story in the April number I liked
best and which I hate best. ‘The Scar’ by Dr. Carl Ramus was
a gem. Plausible, scientifically correct, well told, no words
wasted. ‘The Whispering Thing’ is the acme of foolish, silly,
nonsensical, high-school girl, bucket-of-blood story. If you
waste more paper on such rotten stuff I predict failure in
caps.”—Adeline Jugol, Covina Apartments, Los Angeles.

Ouch!

Luckily, though, not all our readers disrelished “The Whispering Thing.” For instance:

“Dear sir: Having recently read the second issue of WEIRD
TALES, I cannot refrain from expressing my congratulations
on your rare fiction taste as an editor. I enjoyed reading
the novelette by Harold Ward, but the authors who wrote ‘The
Whispering Thing’ have an imagination which is extraordinary. I
happened to read this story late at night, and I began to look
for ‘spooks.’ Talk about horror and terror combined! This story
is nothing short of a marvel.

“I sincerely believe that you have an innate tendency for
selecting stories of this type, and if you keep this class
of stories running you will, without the least doubt, be a
success.”—O. R. Hamilton, 4002 Avenue F, Austin, Texas.

With regard to the poetic effusion that follows, we’re not sure whether “Witch Hazel” is spoofing us or having a spasm of ecstasy. At any rate, we’ll take a chance and print the thing just as she wrote it:

“Dear Editor: No words can express how much I enjoy your
magazine. Here is what I think of it:

“Oh, what is more pleasure than a show,
A party, bon bons, or even a beau?
Well, here’s the answer (all readers take heed);
WEIRD TALES and a nice quiet place to read!

“It’s my favorite magazine, and I can hardly wait for
each number to come out. I think it is the most wonderful
magazine in the world, as it is so different, so extremely
interesting—but there! I can never say enough in its praise.
As my little verse says, ‘I like it better than anything,’ and
I’ve often said I wished some editor would publish just such a
magazine, and thank you, Mr. Baird (you Good Fairy) for doing
so. I can hardly wait for the next issue. Thank you for filling
a long felt need, and good luck!”—Witch Hazel of St. Louis.

We’ve scores of flattering letters here, but we’re not going to print them all [prolonged and loud applause], because, for one thing, we haven’t space, and, for another, we have a sneaking suspicion that our delight in reading them is not always shared by others. So we’ll run only five or six more, and call it a day.

“My dear Mr. Baird: I don’t mind admitting that I was a little
leary about WEIRD TALES when I first heard of it. The fact of
the matter is, I picked up the first copy with a good deal of
prejudice against it. The reason for this prejudice is clear
enough. I have always had a healthy respect for mystery stories
and believe they are the hardest kind to write—and to judge.

“For this reason I am moved to write you and tell you how very
much my view point has changed. You have not only sold me, you
have enthused me. There is no question about your future. I’ve
talked to many friends who have read the March issue, and I
know.”—A. M. Oliver, 148 North Portage Path, Akron, Ohio.

“Dear sir: I asked my newsdealer for something different in the
magazine line today, and he handed me a copy of the April WEIRD
TALES. I’ve read many so-called mystery stories, but none can
compare with those I found in your magazine. It is something
altogether new and most fascinating. I especially enjoyed
‘The Snake Fiend’ and ‘The Conquering Will.’ Those sort of
stories appeal to me. For anybody that is looking for something
different I heartily advise your magazine. May you prosper!”—P.
W. Burrows, Kearney, Nebraska.

“Dear sirs: ... I was in the business section of Des Moines
one evening recently when my eye fell upon a copy of WEIRD
TALES. Struck by its unusual appearance, I bought one. When
I arrived home it was rather early, and I sat down to read.
Well, I had not finished a half dozen pages before I knew I had
found a marvelous book—in fact, my ideal magazine. Before I had
finished the second story I was as much in its power as our
detective friend seems to be in the power of ‘The Whispering
Thing.’...

“But here I have been taking up your time with praise of the
Wonder Magazine and haven’t spoken of the most vital thing—the
thing which makes such mighty entertainment possible. Please
find enclosed three dollars for which please enter me for a
year’s subscription to WEIRD TALES, beginning with your third
issue.”—J. C. Wolquist, 1544 Walker Street, Des Moines, Iowa.

“Dear Mr. Baird: Three weeks ago I bought a copy of WEIRD
TALES, and I am shaking yet, as you probably can tell by
my scribbling!... The first story I read was ‘The Thing of
a Thousand Shapes.’ It happened to be eleven-thirty when I
finished the first installment, and I went to bed quaking in
every limb, firmly resolved never to lay eyes on another copy
of WEIRD TALES.

“A few days later I passed a news stand. There, glaring into my
eyes, was the interesting cover of WEIRD TALES. I was about to
turn away when curiosity whispered in my ear, ‘What happened to
Billy?’

“Being a woman, curiosity, of course, won, and home I went,
with the copy tucked snugly under my arm.... And now I look
on WEIRD TALES as a friend indeed. I daren’t let my little
brother get the magazine before he does his lessons, or they
would never get done, while such an absorbing magazine is
around.”—Miss Marguerite Nicholson, 635 North Frazier Street,
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

“Dear Mr. Baird: Congratulations! Your new magazine is simply
splendid. I have often wondered just when I would be able to go
to a news stand and buy a real magazine. Now all my worry has
ceased.... There is one trouble with it, and that is that it
doesn’t come weekly or semi-monthly.”—M. Nawrocki, 854 Robinson
Avenue, Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

“Dear Mr. Baird: ... I have thoroughly enjoyed DETECTIVE TALES,
every issue of it, and believe that there is more good reading
matter in it than in any other magazine published, and when I
saw a copy of WEIRD TALES at the news stand, with your name or
it, I could not resist getting it. And it has lived up to my
expectations. I could not put the magazine down until I had
finished every story, and that was about three o’clock the next
morning.”...—Mary Sharon, 1912 Main Street, Galena, Kansas.

And it’s now three o’clock in the afternoon, and the printer is calling for copy, and—

That’ll be all.

THE EDITOR.

* * * * *

Margaret Sanger dares to tell the truth about Birth Control

For centuries the world has played a game of “hush” about the one most important fact of marriage. Even today tens of thousands of women are doomed to a life of hopeless, helpless drudgery—and their children are doomed to privation and neglect because the mother simply can not give so many of them the proper care or support.

Words alone can not tell the terrible sacrifice in wasted bodies and blasted lives that has been exacted from women every year. Words alone can not express the untold suffering tens of thousands of women—and children—must endure every year. That is why Margaret Sanger, herself a mother, and President of the American Birth Control League, dares to tell the truth about this important subject.

Will you ever write a letter like this?

Only these agony-laden letters can tell the story of woman’s sacrifice in all its anguish. These are but a few of thousands sent every day to Margaret Sanger by unhappy mothers who have turned to her for help in their greatest need, revealing to her the nameless fears and terrors that clutch at their hearts. Read these letters, and know for yourself what women still suffer:

“It is terrible to think of bringing these little bodies and
souls into the world, without means or strength to care for
them. I know that this must be the last one, for it would be
better for me to go than to bring more neglected babies into
the world.”

“My baby is only 10 months old, and the oldest of my four
children is 7. I am so discouraged I want to die. Ignorance on
this all-important subject has put me where I am.”

“Why is it,” Mrs. Sanger asks, “that the women of Australia, New Zealand, Holland, France, and many other nations are permitted to know the truths that can save them from this terrible suffering, while the women of America must still endure the agonies to which they are needlessly condemned?” Margaret Sanger considers it a slur upon the intelligence of American womankind to deny to them the knowledge which has brought freedom, health, happiness, and life itself, to the women of other nations. That is why she has braved the storms of denunciation, why she has fought through every court in the land for her right to arouse woman-kind.

In her revolutionary book, Margaret Sanger, internationally famous for her ceaseless activities in behalf of women and hailed as the liberator of her sex, shows the way out for tired, struggling womankind. With utter frankness she tears down the veil of silence that has always surrounded the subject of birth control. It is a startling revelation of a new truth that will open the eyes of women everywhere.

Is the Husband or Wife to Blame?

Whose is the blame for the tragedy of too many children—husband
or wife?

Margaret Sanger, the great Birth Control advocate, comes with a
message vital to every married man and woman.

In her wonderful book Mrs. Sanger shows how women can and will rise above the forces that have ruined their beauty—that drag them down—that wreck their mental and physical strength—that make them an easy prey for death—that disqualify them for society, for self-improvement—and finally shut them out from the thing they cherish most, their husband’s love.

In blazing this revolutionary trail to the new freedom of women, this daring and heroic author points out that women who can not afford to have more than one or two children, should not do so. It is a crime to herself, a crime to her children, a crime to society.

A Priceless Possession

Now Margaret Sanger’s message to all women, contained in “Woman and the New Race,” is made available to the public. A special edition of this vital book has been published in response to the overwhelming demand. Order your copy of this wonderful book at once, at the special edition price of only $2. Then, if after reading it you do not treasure it as a priceless possession, return it to us and your money will be refunded.

It is not even necessary to send a penny now. Just the coupon will bring your copy of “Woman and the New Race.” It is bound in handsome, durable gray cloth, printed in clear readable type, on good quality book paper and contains 234 pages, sent to you in a plain wrapper. When the book is delivered at your home, pay the postman the special low price of $2 plus the few cents postage. But mail the coupon at once. Tear it off before you turn this page.

PARTIAL LIST OF CONTENTS

* Woman’s Error and Her Debt.
Cries of Despair
* When Should a Woman Avoid Having Children?
Two Classes of Women.
Birth Control—a Parent’s Problem or Woman’s.
* Continence—Is it Practicable or Desirable?
Woman and the New Morality.
* Are Preventive Means Certain?
Legislating Women’s Morals.
* Contraceptives or Abortion.
Progress We Have Made.

* Any one of these chapters is alone worth many times the price
of the book.

TRUTH PUBLISHING COMPANY
Dept. T-506 1658 Broadway
New York City

Truth Publishing Company
Dept. T-506, 1658 Broadway
New York City

Please send me in plain wrapper, Margaret Sanger’s new book,
“Woman and the New Race.” I am enclosing no money, but will
give the postman who delivers the book to me $2 plus postage.

Name __________________________________

Address _______________________________

City __________________ State _________

(Orders from countries outside the United States, must be
accompanied by money order.)

* * * * *

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MEN—BOYS 18 OR OVER SHOULD MAIL COUPON IMMEDIATELY

STEADY WORK

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FRANKLIN INSTITUTE,
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Sirs: Send me, without charge, (1) sample Railway Postal
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* * * * *

BE SURE AND GET YOUR COPY OF WEIRD TALES EVERY MONTH

* * * * *

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You can do every bit as well as he did. If that isn’t enough, then let me tell you about E. A. Sweet of Michigan. He was an electrical engineer and didn’t know anything about selling. In his first month’s spare time he earned $243. Inside of six months he was making between $600 and $1,200 a month.

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Now, Comer Coats are not sold in stores. All our orders come through our own representatives. Within the next few months we will pay representatives more than three hundred thousand dollars for sending us orders.

And now I am offering you the chance to become our representative in your territory and get _your_ share of that three hundred thousand dollars. All you do is to take orders. We do the rest. We deliver. We collect and you get your money the same day you take the order.

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Maybe You Are Worth $1,000 a Month

Well, here is your chance to find out, for this is the same proposition that enabled George Garon to make a clear profit of $40.00 in his first day’s work—the same proposition that gave R. W. Krieger $20.00 net profit in a half hour. It is the same opportunity that gave A. B. Spencer $625 cash for one month’s spare time.

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C. E. COMER, THE COMER MFG. CO.
Dept. 11-C, Dayton, Ohio

_JUST MAIL THIS NOW!_

THE COMER MFG. CO., Dept. 11-C, Dayton, Ohio

Please tell me how I can make $200 a week as your
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_Name_ __________________________________________

_Address_ _______________________________________

* * * * *

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* * * * *

Agents

YE GODS!