The Poor Man's Wealth

On a sunny spring day long, long ago a sad raccoon found himself tired and alone in the middle of a forest. For many days the raccoon had been traveling in search of something that would bring him happiness, but his journey had found him only more sadness. His feet were sore, his fur was matted, and—as he had eaten his last cob of corn the night before—he was without food. Just when the raccoon was about to surrender all hope of ever finding happiness a man with a wide smile on his face and a sack of potatoes over his shoulder came into sight.

"Hello," the raccoon said.

"Hello," the man returned.

“Please sir, I'm so hungry. Could I have some potatoes? Just one?”

The man thought for a moment, but his smiling expression never changed.

"Alright," he answered, "I will share my potatoes with you."

The man handed the raccoon a potato and together they sat amidst the trees and enjoyed a delightful meal and a pleasant conversation. But as he turned to leave the sack tore open and potatoes spilled out across the forest floor. The smiling man didn't seem to notice and continued on his way, leaving the potatoes and the raccoon behind.

"With all these potatoes I won't go hungry for weeks!" exclaimed the raccoon, and he greedily stuffed the spuds into his own purse.

The next day he continued his search. He discovered a cottage in a clearing deep within the woods. Curious as to who would live in such a place, the raccoon knocked on the door. When it opened he found himself looking at none-other than the man from the day before. The man's smile was still so wide that the raccoon wondered if the potatoes had been missed at all.

"My friend Mr. Raccoon," the man said merrily. "What a surprise to see you here. Come, you must meet my family."

Before the raccoon could utter a single word of greeting, he was yanked into the cottage and the door was shut behind him. He found himself in a small room filled with blankets and beds. Playing with some wooden toys scattered about the floor were two children, a girl and a boy. Sitting on a rocking chair beside a tender fire was a woman feeding an infant child from a bottle of warm milk. All the occupants of the home wore smiles so wide they seemed too large for their faces. After introductions had been made, the raccoon asked the man to join him outside where they could speak privately.

"What do you wish to ask me, Mr. Raccoon?"

"Yourself and your family all seem so happy," said the raccoon. "Where does your happiness come from?"

"Our happiness? Our happiness comes from our wealth of course," the man laughed.

"What wealth? From all outward appearance, you're as poor as they come!"

"Stay with us," said the man, "and I shall share my wealth with you.”

And so the raccoon stayed with the family for many months. Each day he would try to uncover the secrets of their happiness. On one day when they were having scrambled eggs for breakfast he asked if the family's wealth was eggs but the man said no, that wasn't it. On another day the raccoon asked if the wealth came from the livestock kept in the barn outside, but no, the man said that was not the wealth either. It seemed to the raccoon that the man must have been hiding his wealth, so the raccoon cooked up a nasty scheme. Each day he would hide something that belonged to the man and see what he wept for most. Whichever thing brought the most tears would have to be whatever he considered his wealth.

That night the raccoon snuck out to the barn. He unlocked all the gates and opened all the doors, releasing the animals into the forest. When the next day came, the raccoon found the man did not weep but was merely puzzled by the animals' sudden disappearance. Deciding the livestock was not the man's wealth, the raccoon looked for something else. That night, while all were asleep, the raccoon stole the cooking supplies and buried them in the forest. Neither the man nor his wife seemed troubled by the vanishing pots and pans, and continued their day smiling as they always did.

For several days and nights this continued, until at last there was little left in the home. The raccoon had hidden the man's gold watch, the children's toys, the wife's rocking chair and even the infant's bottle, but nothing seemed to make the family stop smiling. At last the raccoon decided the wealth must be the house itself. So one day, while the family was outside hanging laundry and watching the clouds in the sky, the raccoon lit fire to their home and burned it to the ground.

"What a terrible loss," the raccoon said to the man as they watched the cottage burn.

"Indeed it is, but we have family who will take us in," the man said, still smiling.

The man's smile finally caused the raccoon to snap. "Listen you. You've lost everything. Your pots and your pans, your roosters and hens, even the gold watch from your old man. Before you is your home, rising to the heavens in pillars of black smoke. Yet you smile. You still smile. Tell me good sir; please tell me as you promised I would learn. What is the wealth that keeps you happy?"

The man looked at the raccoon. "Oh, poor Mr. Raccoon. None of those things were my wealth. Despite staying with us for so long, you still have not learned what it is that keeps us happy? I suppose I will need to tell you then."

The man walked over to his children and his wife and his infant son. "This is my family, and they are all the wealth I need."

So a Man Walks into the 21st Century...

A disheveled-looking man approached an officer one afternoon. His hair was dry and dusty and knotted in clumps, his clothes were ragged, dangling, and torn. And ever so bizarre, too. Like aluminum foil! Dark bags hung under his spacey brown eyes. Cuts and bruises decorated his cheeks like tribal paint. He walked with a limp, courtesy of the busted ankle on his left side.

"Officer," the man wheezed, reaching out weakly and clutching the enforcement's collar for support. "Officer, do you have the year?"

"The year?" the officer asked, cocking an eye at both the man and his question. His fingers danced along his belt, waiting for the order.

"Yes, yes. Do you know what year it is?" Stink from the man's breath wafted up the officer's nose.

The cop gagged on the stench, in his disgusts finding that he, too, had forgotten the year. He checked his watch (the same one he'd worn since third-grade. With the press of a button, he could send a two-bit surfer half a mile over blue LED).

"It's 2013, sir."

"Oh, right, yes, 2013, of course it is." The man pulled himself straight, releasing the death grip on the officer's collar. His clothes crinkled with each minor movement. "That should be good. Perfect actually. We-we still have freedom of speech around here, right?"

"Uh, yeah," the officer replied. He scratched his head. "Listen, what's this all ab—"

"I can say anything? Absolutely anything I want? Anything, anywhere, anytime. That's the law?"

"Yeah, guy. It's in the Constitution. You have the right to free speech, you can say anything. Give it a try sometime. Knock yourself out. But right now, bud, I'm a little concerned about you. You been hitting the bars already? Need to go sleep it off?"

"No, no bars. No time for that now." The man spun around, bounding away from the officer and in the general direction of an out-door cafe shouting: "Listen! Listen! Hey, listen!"

The tea-sippers all turned, most all with one eye twitching in utter incomprehension at this most uncouth of disruptions.

"Listen, you have to listen." The man waved his arms about frantically. "I'm from the near future. 2023, to be exact. Just ten years from now. Listen, please, there's no time. You must act now! You must not elect—"

"Wait! You there! Halt!" The officer came racing after, baton at the ready. In twice the time he was with them, nabbing the outlandish man by the arm.

"Wh-what's the problem, officer? I thought—"

"Yo-you can't say things here. Not in public. Somebody might hear you!"

The strange man hasn't been heard from since.

"The Bat and the Weasels" by Aesop (Translated by George Fyler Townsend)

A Bat who fell upon the ground and was caught by a Weasel pleaded to be spared his life. The Weasel refused, saying that he was by nature the enemy of all birds. The Bat assured him that he was not a bird, but a mouse, and thus was set free. Shortly afterwards the Bat again fell to the ground and was caught by another Weasel, whom he likewise entreated not to eat him. The Weasel said that he had a special hostility to mice. The Bat assured him that he was not a mouse, but a bat, and thus a second time escaped.

It is wise to turn circumstances to good account.

Ellen Lynn (Author)

Short Stories

                                                 

"The Wolf and the Lamb" by Aesop (Translated by George Fyler Townsend)

Wolf, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the Wolf's right to eat him. He thus addressed him: "Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me." "Indeed," bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, "I was not then born." Then said the Wolf, "You feed in my pasture." "No, good sir," replied the Lamb, "I have not yet tasted grass." Again said the Wolf, "You drink of my well." "No," exclaimed the Lamb, "I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother's milk is both food and drink to me." Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, "Well! I won't remain supperless, even though you refute every one of my imputations."

The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.

"The Horror of the Haunted Castle" by Ellen Lynn

Witches, ghosts, haunted castles! Do they belong only to ages long past. Are they only tales told by tellers of fairy tales. To Alice Martin such things were nonsense. She said she couldn't believe them.

Alice was a typical, fun-loving, American college girl—and besides, she was studying sciences. A scientist knows that every phenomenon, no matter how strange, has its own physical cause and effect. Eerie creatures, apparitions arise from the frightened minds of superstitious people. Science clears away the mists and fog surrounding weird beliefs. So Alice, with her pretty face and charming figure, was quite sure of herself and could venture where most people might tread cautiously. That is until Grinling Castle came into her life.

A group of exceptional students of science were going abroad to spend a year studying at an ancient University near Paris. Alice was elated when she was chosen to join the group and she won the permission of her indulgent parents to accompany the selected party under the supervision of two of the instructors. They were a gay and happy group as they set sail for Europe.

In ancient Europe, Alice found studying most stimulating. In addition, she was very popular with all the male students, French, Italian, German, English. Hans Karel, a young assistant instructor was particularly smitten with her and she had had a few dates with him. He was not unattractive with his blond hair and teutonic stiffness. But there was something—she couldn't quite put her finger on it—that made her feel not quite comfortable with him. Perhaps it was his eyes: they were steel blue, cold and penetrating. She felt that his eyes saw through her and knew—knew—that it was Professor Loring, head professor in mythology, that she couldn't dismiss from her real thoughts, and her heart.

Prof. Loring had requested her to assist him with the manuscript of his book on the Origins and Causes of Legends and Superstitions. She had felt not only proud and honored by his selection of her—but her heart fluttered strangely when his deep, brown eyes looked into hers, and taking his pipe from his mouth, he asked, "Miss Martin, would you care to spend some of your evening hours assisting me with my manuscript?" Hans Karel, the science instructor, was standing nearby at the time, and she noticed how strained he was as he listened to them.

"It would be an honor," she had answered. "I'm on the edge of a great discovery in the supernatural but I need a live assistant to scare the ghosts." They both laughed. He was quite young for a professor and very handsome. And then she had noticed again how hostile Hans had looked, his lips drawn into a thin line and his eyes shooting cold sparks. Suddenly she wished she could break her date with him for that evening. He was such an intense young man. Well, she'd keep it this time—but no more dates after that with Hans Karel.

It was wonderful working with Matthew Loring; but he had been right—it was hard work searching old tomes for proofs of ancient ghosts and like phenomena. "Alice," he once said, "I'll have to give you credit when my book goes into publication. Rather, I should say, it will be a pleasure to give you credit." They were standing close together and she looked into his eyes, flushing at his words. Suddenly, he took hold of her hands, then drew her to him and kissed her lips. A cough broke the silence. They had not heard Hans come into the room. The professor calmly released Alice, said, "I'll be back in a little while, dear. I'm going to my office now." And he left the room. Alice turned to Hans. He was glaring at her and his face was scarlet.

"So," he spluttered, "It's 'dear', is it? And sneaking kisses instead of working. So that's why he picked you to assist him? He makes believe his only interest is ghosts and then he steals my full of life girl."

"Your girl!" Alice exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, Hans, what right have you to make such a claim? And as for the kisses—I'll have you know this is the first time he ever kissed me, and he did so because I wanted him to. I'm in love with him."

"Bah! He loves only ghosts. That's where he should be—with them. The fool, believing in such silly things."

For the first time in her memory, Alice felt a sense of fear as she watched Hans's reaction to her words. From bright red, his face turned pale as ivory. His breath came in short spasms and his fingers were clenching and unclenching rapidly.

When the book was nearing completion, Alice became thoroughly fascinated with the mounting proofs of those who had returned from the graves to haunt the land of the living. But now she and Professor Loring realized they needed personal proof to complete their manuscript and crown it with real success. They believed that the old forbidding and forbidden ghostly Grinling Castle would give the proof they needed.

Then one day the Professor barged in with an open letter in his hand. In a voice filled with elation he said, "Alice, at last I've got permission to visit the Grinling Castle. At last I've gotten through the taboos and red tape. I truly believe that even the government officials believe that the castle is haunted, and know that ghosts must inhabit those musty, decayed walls. They warned me not to go—but finally granted permission. Then will my manuscript be complete."

Alice rejoiced with the professor. Then he turned and grasped both her arms. "My only regret is it is so dangerous that I have to leave you behind, Alice—just when I've found you—fallen in love with you." Happily, Alice returned his kiss as the thought of the strange Hans flitted through her mind when she heard, "and Karel has offered to come along to confirm my findings."

Matthew Loring and Hans Karel departed the next morning for the distant Grinling Castle. Hans sat grimly at the wheel as Matthew chatted gaily about his anticipation of their findings.

"I know, Hans, we can arouse at least one of the famous ghosts of the castle. A personal encounter would show our disbelieving world that the dead do come back at the right time and place."

Hans stared straight ahead as he spoke, "You're in an unusual mood, professor. One would almost think you're in love."

"You've guessed it, Hans," was the quick reply. "I'm sure you know I'm in love with Alice Martin, my pretty little American assistant. When my manuscript is complete, after Grinling, we will marry."

The car shot ahead at a sudden increase of speed. Prof. Loring turned to stare at the man at the wheel. Hans' face was ashen grey and he leaned forward as he stepped on the accelerator. The needle pointed to 80!

The two men remained silent the rest of the trip. When they reached the castle grounds a heavy mist had settled over the thick trees and wild hedges. The grounds had not been tended for many years and a thick maze of branches and vines made it difficult to penetrate to the building. But they finally got through and Prof. Loring started to jot down notes as he mounted the cracked and crumbling steps of the house.

Inside, from the high-vaulted ceiling hung draperies and cobwebs, and huge flying creatures darted about in the dim light. Suddenly a long, thin, scream assailed their ears.

Prof. Loring turned to Hans and whispered, "Hans, I know it. That was the voice of a ghost! The Grinling ghost. Europe's most famous ghost."

"Not quite, Loring," Hans answered. "My reason still tells me it was the sound of the wind through the cracks. And that's how ghost stories arise—from just such sounds in a ruined building."

As the Professor answered, a wild thought darted through Hans's burning mind. Here was his chance for revenge—and for Alice Martin. Yes, he would do it—and have a wonderful alibi to cover himself! That balcony running around two walls, high up toward the ceiling, and the rickety railing...! Hans quickly mounted the steps and called to Loring down below. "Come up, Professor, look recent shadowy foot prints—without weight—inhuman." Eagerly, Loring took the steps two at a time. "Yes, where are they?" he asked Hans. "There, look down there," said Hans. Surprised, Loring leaned over and Hans carried out his plan; with two hands he pushed hard—and Loring crashed through the rotting rail, his body somersaulting in air as he gave one awful scream. It landed with a loud thud on the stone floor below and a cloud of dust mounted high, high up to the gloating face of Hans.

"Now, Professor, you can be a ghost along with the rest of the company here. Perhaps you can let us know from the next world all about ghosts and such. Maybe there you can finish your foolish manuscript." Then Hans left the castle feeling like a conqueror.

Everyone was shocked at the terrible accident that had befallen the popular Prof. Loring. Alice couldn't believe that he was dead. "But Hans," she asked over and over again, "Surely he knew the railing was rotted. Why did he lean against it at such a height? What was he looking for?"

For months Hans tried to win Alice's interest, but she could not get over the tragic event, and she avoided him. Every night she dreamed of Professor Loring—Matthew—and his unfinished manuscript and imagined him falling, falling, over the creaking railing of the balcony at Grinling Castle. Then, one night, in a dream, the dead Loring came back, he spoke to her: "Alice—beloved—make Hans go back to the Castle, and have him bring my unfinished manuscript. Hurry, hurry! Now it can be finished—now I know!" She woke with a start from this vivid dream. Three nights in a row the same thing occurred. The fourth day, Hans phoned her and she told him to come to see her. She decided to obey the instructions of her dream—Matthew's voice was so clear to her.

"Hans," she said, "I want to visit Grinling Castle. Will you meet me there? After I see the place of his death I will be able to forget him. Please take his unfinished manuscript with you. Let us leave it there. Please, for my sake."

"I am not permitted to take you there, Alice, but if you wish it I shall go to the castle and leave the manuscript there. Would that please you?" Hans offered quickly.

Alice felt that would fulfill the orders of her dream. The next day Hans left with the manuscript in his brief case. He said he would return the following day.

A week later, Hans had not returned. Alarmed, Alice notified the police. She accompanied them to the famous old haunted Castle. They found the remains of a new body—Hans, apparently dead six days. On the ground were the scattered pages of the unfinished manuscript. The police permitted Alice to pick them up. To her amazement, there were additional pages—a new chapter written in Matthew's handwriting. But she knew no one would believe her. The manuscript had been finished! And the last paragraph read:

"Yes people have avenging ghosts after all Hans hurled me to my death, but I couldn't die till I was avenged. It was my own ghost that really brought him back to the castle and made him jump from the balcony from which he hurled me. Now the world can know the truth."

"Horror of the Drowned" by Ellen Lynn

The news of Tom's death came to Arlene as a terrible shock.

I loved my niece Arlene as a daughter and tried to take her mother's place when my sister Grace died; I was with Arlene when the tragic news about Tom reached her.

When Arlene fell in love with Tom Bradley she was only sixteen, but she gave her whole romantic heart to the quiet, handsome young man the moment she met him—and he knew he had become equally smitten with her. Their love was a beautiful thing to see—a charming idyll. And I felt sure my dead sister would have been pleased with Arlene's choice of a husband. But, perhaps because she was so very young and romantic, Arlene's love was so intense it worried me. She seemed only to live for the moment when she could be with Tom, and everything else became subordinate to their meetings. Just because she sensed my worry, she grew pale and thin, and I was deciding in my own mind that an early marriage might restore the normal balance of her life. Then Tom came with the news that he was to leave almost at once for—KOREA—with his regiment.

For Tom's sake Arlene knew she had to take this blow calmly; she did not even suggest that they be married before Tom left for Korea. When they said goodbye she was pale and her eyes were red-rimmed, but no tears were shed. Only a soft promise from Tom that he would come back soon and claim his bride.

She waited for Tom's letters as she had previously waited for him. She retreated into herself living only for Tom's return and finally I took her away to my little place in the country where I thought she might better adjust herself to Tom's absence. The long quiet lake on which my house was situated proved a strong attraction for her and every possible day she was out in her canoe or small outboard motorboat, mostly thinking of Tom.

Then the day arrived when the fatal telegram about Tom reached her. His boat had been hit and he had been drowned while they were trying to make a landing near Seoul. I'll never forget how Arlene looked reading that wire. She was very still—then she looked up at me, wild-eyed, frightened, the sheet fluttering from her fingers. A piercing, shrill scream came from her lips, and she rushed from the house. I started after her but could not catch up with that fleet-footed creature as she sped to the lake front and got into the small motorboat floating at the little pier. Quickly she got the motor started and the chug-chug-chug faded into the distance as she rounded a bend.

I was terrified of what she might do and phoned a few neighbors around the lake to keep an eye out for Arlene. I told them the tragic news about Tom's drowning and they understood my anxiety for Arlene.

But toward dusk I could hear the chug-chug-chug once more and rushed out to the terrace to see my niece pulling the boat beside our dock. She walked up to the house slowly but soon I could see she had quieted down. I took her in my arms and kissed her with relief.

The next few days, Arlene behaved very well. In fact after her daily boat ride she'd return in rather cheerful spirits—for her. I knew that somehow she felt closer to Tom, alone on that silent lake.

Then one day she came running up from the lake, breathless, eyes shining. "Oh, Aunt Betty—Aunt Betty! I've seen him! I've seen Tom!"

My heart stopped beating. Had her mind snapped? My poor, poor, little girl! "But darling," I soothed, "how could you? Poor Tom's body is still in Korea..."

"No—no! He's on the bottom of the lake—over in the cove. I saw him, I saw him. He was smiling at me with that crooked little smile I love so much..."

I was heavy-hearted but I tried to divert Arlene as well as I could and one day I suggested we drive over to the state's fine, if small, art gallery where a loan collection was being shown, donated by local townsfolk. Arlene agreed and I was delighted that she would be willing to do anything that would take her "out of herself."

At the gallery I found the borrowed collection fascinating but Arlene wandered about by herself. Finally, just as I wished, I found her staring intently at the oil which I had donated to the exhibit. The artist, Sloan Farraday, was not first rate—but in this particular work he had risen to unsuspected heights of talent and it had actually won the coveted Beardsley Award. The subject was somewhat poetic and nebulous—an exquisite girl with alabaster face and enormous black eyes, flowing black hair, was floating gracefully in the arms of a creature half-man, half sea nymph; he seemed to be drawing her down, down through the jade green waters. Both of them wore ambiguous smiles of great tenderness. There was a disturbing, haunting quality in the picture which had brought Farraday unexpected acclaim.

"Aunt—Aunt Betty. Tell me about this painting, please," Arlene asked, not taking her eyes away from it.

Then suddenly it dawned on me that Arlene may have heard some time the story of the picture and was transferring it to her own experience. Perhaps if I told her the legend behind it she'd realize what a fantasy she was building up in her mind, about Tom.

"Had you never heard the story of your great-great-great Aunt Annalee?" I asked her. "The artist of this picture, Sloan Farraday, had been in love with her and after her—her tragedy, he was inspired to paint this picture."

"I don't remember," Arlene answered, her eyes still glued to the canvas. "Tell me about it, Aunt Betty!" And this time her words were almost a command. A feeling of helplessness came over me and I proceeded to tell her the story.

"When our ancestor, Annalee, was a young girl she was betrothed to Sloan Farraday. Our house was the very house in which she lived and he lived with his family a short distance away. He had always been in love with her but she kept putting off a date of marriage. One day she came crying to her mother—that she would never marry Sloan, that she loved another man. She looked dreamily into her mother's eyes saying, 'Mother, you'll think me mad—but there's a beautiful man—at the bottom—of our lake. He's the most handsome creature I've ever seen and I love him with all my heart. He speaks to me and I know he loves me, too.' Her mother did indeed think her mad and tried to keep her protected from the world, hoping no one would find out. But some of the villagers in town had found out about Annalee's visions at the bottom of the lake. A strange fever spread in the community. People began to accuse Annalee of being a witch. A number of sudden tragedies, inexplicable, hit hard in the Maine village. With no previous illness, a baby suddenly screamed in the night and the next morning died. Cows and sheep were barren—without apparent cause! Fires started up out of nowhere. The superstitious townsfolk became panicky and looked for a scapegoat on which to pin all these terrible incidents. It was the age of witches. Rumor having gotten around about Annalee and her man at the bottom of the lake, the cry of Witch! Witch! began to be heard. Annalee's poor mother trembled for the safety of her daughter and one day a furious crowd, inflamed by a new onset of tragic occurrences, came to this house and tore Annalee from her mother's arms. They tried her. She protested her own innocence, the poor girl begged them to go see for themselves that the man she loved who was at the bottom of the lake, but paying no attention to the ravings of a sick girl they tied her to a stake in the village and threw faggots around the base. Matches were struck and a crackling fire started to roar upward when suddenly a silence fell on the angry crowd and Annalee's lips parted in a joyful smile. A handsome young man, his green silk clothes dripping water, came through as the people, horrified, stepped aside. He loosened the cords binding Annalee, put out the fire with the constantly streaming water and carried the lovely, smiling girl away. Some who had followed them said he walked straight into the lake with Annalee in his arms—until they both disappeared under the water.

"So, dear Arlene," I ended the tale, "that's the fairy-tale legend of our ancestor, which they say, inspired her lovesick sweetheart, Sloan Farraday, to paint this charming poem in oils."

Arlene had listened to the whole story intently. Obviously just as I intended, she was thinking about the strange similarity between her vision—seeing Tom at the bottom of the lake—and that of our ancestor Annalee. I was sure that her mother, or someone, had told her the same legend, perhaps in her childhood, and by some quirk of the mind she imagined seeing Tom in the same way. I had hoped the story would cure her. I found it difficult to tear her away from her preoccupation with the picture. Something else must be done, I decided. We'll go back to the city and see if a psychiatrist can unravel the strange knots in my niece's mind. When I told her we were leaving, I saw her tremble violently.

When the packing was finished I looked about for Arlene, ready to start back to the city. My hand leaped to my mouth in an impulse of fear as I saw her in her hat and coat running wildly down to the boat, saying, "I am coming, Tom." I let out a scream, calling her to come back—but she got in the boat. Just as it was rounding the bend, I saw—I saw—my niece stand up—wave back at me and jump. Her body was not recovered.

The next morning, grieving and wretched, I walked down to the dock to gaze into the watery grave Arlene had chosen when I saw something, bright-colored, drifting in toward me. It was a scarf. Fascinated, I picked up a long twig and pulled it in. I gasped when I recognized the scarf. It was the one Arlene had given Tom before he sailed for Korea!

"Terror in the Stars" by Ellen Lynn

The men in our observatory called us the "three musketeers." Karl Manley, Russ Fenway and I had been buddies since boyhood—but the bond between Karl and me was especially close. We had always been interested in the same things, and as we grew older our interest in astronomy became an enthusiasm. I was even in love with the same girl, Lucy Tremont, but I knew she loved Karl—and I kept my frustrated emotions to myself.

Our new research laboratory was in the middle west, Lucy lived in the East. Often I would hear the low-voiced love-making of Karl as he spoke to her over the telephone. Although he was a scientist—perhaps because of it—Karl had the soul of a poet and the sentiments of love he expressed to Lucy (which I couldn't help overhearing since I was usually seated right next to him) were worthy of a Browning.

The hardest thing for Karl and Lucy was their separation—he in the west, she in the east. "I can't stand her being so far away from me," Karl once blurted out after one of his long-distance phone calls. "It's getting so I can hardly concentrate on my work. And Lucy is unhappy, too. We've decided to get married after this next field trip; she'll have to give up her job and come to live here."

By a lucky chance, Karl, Russ and I had been assigned together to a field trip to our new laboratory on the top of Mt. Crenshaw. The largest, newest, most powerful telescope in the world based on nuclear theories had been recently completed there and we were to spend a month observing the heavens and writing papers on our findings. Russ rushed over to the both of us and boyishly placed an arm around each of our shoulders, bent over our desks. "We're going together, boys," he exclaimed happily. "That's really a break for us! We'll explore the heavens—far beyond what men have seen before. It's our big chance."

I grinned up at Russ, just as pleased as he was that the three of us were to be together on the job. But Karl seemed not to have heard. The pencil in his fingers was not writing, his eyes had a far-away look. Russ, in his jovial way, slapped Karl on the back. "Brace up, fella, Lucy'll be waiting for you—and you'll be back in four weeks." Without answering, Karl had gone to the telephone to speak to Lucy in the East.

The day before our departure, Karl had a wonderful surprise: Lucy had come out, just to say goodbye. The pang I felt at seeing the two dreamy-eyed lovers fall into each other's arms was equaled by the relief that at last Karl could ease up in his tension. The visit from Lucy was just what he needed, so that he could once again put his brilliant mind to work.

I drove Karl and Lucy to the airport to catch her plane back East. As though I weren't even there, they spoke endearing words of farewell before she got into the plane. "Really, kids," I tried to jest, "this isn't the last goodbye—only four weeks and you two will never be parted again. Remember?"

Lucy stared intently into Karl's eyes, and remained silent a moment. Then she said, rather solemnly, "You are right, Steve, Karl and I will never be parted. I swear it. No matter what happens, he and I will always be together."

"Spoken like a true lover," I declared, trying to break the spell of seriousness that had been cast.

Karl insisted on our waiting at the airfield till the plane disappeared like a bird into the heavens.

Back at the lab we put the finishing touches to our packing, and Russ's gay spirits somewhat lifted the cloud of gloom that had previously settled over Karl. He actually smiled a few times and by the time we started on our trip he was as good as his old self. He was even able to speak of Lucy without going into a spell. "Come to think of it," he said with a grin, "we'll be so busy the next few weeks, time ought to fly—and then Lucy and I will be married. I've been in a terrible mood lately, boys. It's been rough on you, I know, trying to get me to do my share of the work. But it'll all be different once Lucy and I are together for good."

Russ and I sighed with relief. It was good to have Karl act like a normal human being again. And when we reached the isolated hilltop, where the marvelous telescope was situated he set to his observations and notes with renewed enthusiasm and zest—perhaps even greater than the zeal Russ and I felt. The three of us looked through the powerful lens and felt an awesome thrill at the panorama of heavenly bodies sparkling brilliantly in the infinite space beyond. Karl worked tirelessly, long through the night—even after Russ and I had retired. For we were able to see far beyond the distances men's sight had traveled before.

One night I stirred uneasily in my sleep and woke up. I looked at the clock: it was three in the morning. Then I was startled by the sight of Karl standing in my room in the dim shadows. What on earth is he doing in here? I thought. Could he be walking in his sleep? His eyes were opened and he was staring at me with a strange expression. Then he whispered: "Steve—Steve—are you awake? I—I must talk to you."

I sat bolt upright. "What is it, Karl?" I asked, considerably disturbed by this apparition in the wee hours of the morning. "Is anything wrong?"

He came close to my bedside and I put on the lamp. His face looked ghastly and I was filled with a foreboding. Had he been working too hard? Was he suffering more from his separation from Lucy than we had realized?

Finally he spoke, in a queer voice. "Karl—I've seen Lucy! Now—don't say I'm mad! I've checked and double-checked."

"What do you mean?" I interrupted. "Is she here? Checked what?"

"I have been experimenting with the new mirror we developed and it's unbelievable. Then a few nights ago, Saturday, at 11:30 I saw her for the first time. It was so vague, I wasn't sure. I thought I was just imagining it. Last night I looked again—and there she was, plainly. My new nuclear sights were trained on Saturn. There she was—beckoning me. She wants me to come to her. She was beyond, even the stars."

I was flabbergasted. I didn't know how to handle this situation. My dear friend, my close buddy, had become deranged. Of that I was convinced. I did the best I could to reassure him, to humor him. "Tomorrow we'll telephone Lucy. That should ease your mind, Karl."

"No, no! I mustn't keep her waiting. She insists I join her at once," he declared.

"Well, get some sleep, Karl," I advised him. "And if you must, you can return after breakfast."

He left my room and I tried, not too successfully, to go back to sleep. A half hour later I was beginning to doze off when a sound outside made me leap from my bed and rush to the window. There was Karl, a knapsack on his shoulders, setting out to climb to the utmost peak of Mt. Crenshaw. I yelled after him. Russ came dashing in and together we called to Karl, but he continued his rapid ascent without looking back. We stood there helplessly watching. Knowing Karl, we both realized it would be useless to try to stop him, even if we could possibly reach him at the pace he was going.

"But what is he after?" Russ asked in bewilderment.

I told him the incident in my room and of Karl's hallucination that he saw Lucy beckoning him to come to her into space. In spite of our anxiety, I understood Russ's outburst of laughter. It was a nervous reaction, true, but it was also ludicrous to think of Karl marching off into space to find his lady-love.

There was no more sleep for either of us. We dressed and kept our eyes on the figure of Karl gradually growing smaller as he mounted higher and higher toward the peak hidden in clouds. Then, when our naked eyes could no longer see more than a dot we each picked up small telescopes and continued to follow our friend's fantastic climb.

Just before Karl disappeared into the mists, he turned around and we saw his face clearly in the lens. He was smiling joyously, and raised an arm to wave a friendly farewell. Somehow, this gesture depressed us and we gave up our vigil. That was the last we ever saw of Karl. He had gone, he said, to join his Lucy in space. How were we going to break the awful news to the real Lucy who would be waiting, waiting for Karl's return—expecting to be married the next day!

When we knew for certain that we saw the end of Karl, we returned to our headquarters. A telegram was waiting for him. We decided to open it. The message stunned us both. It was from Lucy's father. It read:

Mr. Karl Manley
Baldwin Observatory
Mt. Crenshaw

Shocking news. Just learned Lucy killed in accident Saturday 11:30 P.M.

                    Benjamin Troll.

"Saturday—11:30!" I exclaimed involuntarily. That was the exact date and time Karl first saw the vision of Lucy through the new nuclear telescope! They had sworn never to be apart. He had gone to join her! Can we believe that? We are scientists.

But what do you believe?

"Hero or Traitor?" by Ellen Lynn

It was a dark dreary day, windy and rain, as a group of us parachutists waited at the edge of the airfield, in a desolate part of a Korean battlefield. Our very secret mission was a dangerous one and the weather added to the general atmosphere of gloom.

A helicopter was to pick us up here and drop us over a prison camp in North Korea. If we were lucky, we would destroy that new red underground depot, find Tod Lessing, rescue him and bring him back to safety or maybe kill him. But there were many questions in our minds: Was he really held near that particular dump? The supposition that he was there was based on a hunch. Was Capt. Lessing the great hero we all worshiped, or was he a traitor, a renegade?

In spite of our doubts and questionings about Lessing we all were anxious to get started on our mission. And I, for one, had been Tod's closest buddy since we came to Korea. We had been G.I.s together and I knew him from the beginning. I had been witness to many of his acts of heroism. Many of us owed our lives to his courage and presence of mind under fire. I for one couldn't believe that my friend Tod Lessing had turned traitor—even though I heard his own voice making that startling admission over the radio.

It goes back six months. Our forces had cross the thirty-eighth parallel and we were fighting in North Korea. Tod's acts of heroism had won him numerous decorations and promotions to the rank of Captain. He was the hero type and he had been given a merited build up. He was football hero—then division boxing champ—then front line hero. His name and fame were known to every G.I. and every Red. The army set him up as an example to be emulated. Even the American press added to the build up. If any guy deserved it, Lessing did. There was a quality in him that made the men adore him—hero-worship him.

One day, when we were north of the thirty-eighth, in the midst of the constant fighting, the muddy marches, the blood, pain and utter weariness, Tod got a shoulder wound. He was sent back to the hospital, which meant he would see his girl, Carol Trent. She was a Wac driver—sometimes for the hospital, sometimes for the big brass. They had met in Korea and fallen in love. So when Tod was hospitalized they had a chance to see each other every day. It was during this time they made their decision to get married. As soon as Tod was able to leave the hospital he asked and got permission to marry. They went to the chaplain who performed the ceremony. I stood up for Tod. There was something almost sad about the meager happiness these two young people grasped for themselves in between the grim episodes of war. In the traditional custom a bunch of us threw rice at the happy couple as they hurried into the waiting jeep which was to take them on their honeymoon.

Tod and Carol were gone for two weeks. When they returned they were bubbling over with descriptions of the beautiful country they had traveled through—in North Korea where we then were. But the day after their return Tod was saying good-bye to his bride as each returned to their outfits.

The times that Tod spent with Carol were pitifully few, when the Allied forces began to suffer severe blows. The Red Koreans were pushing us back rapidly toward the thirty-eighth parallel. They had acquired amazing strength in equipment and fresh forces and our troops were so overwhelmingly outnumbered there was nothing to do but yield ground and move back, back whence we came. The Reds had built a secret underground tank depot near our lines. It was wreaking havoc on us. It had to be located and knocked out by hand—by parachutists. Tod volunteered to find and destroy it. He took a squad behind the Red lines. He never came back—nor did any of his men. The Reds boasted they had our famous war-hero, Tod Lessing.

It was a cruel blow to Carol. I'll never forget her face as she got the news. All the blood seemed to drain from it, leaving her alabaster white. Her eyes looked like two black pools, as they misted over, and she ran quickly to her quarters.

The beating our troops was taking put a spell of gloom over all of us. More and more men were being captured by the Reds. But the thought of Tod stuck in our minds. It was especially hard to think of a man of his courage and strength being held captive in a Red prison camp. And the sight of Carol's set features as she went about her tasks, or waited for news concerning P.W.s, kept us from forgetting the great war hero, Tod Lessing.

I was stretched out on my bed one day, in sheer exhaustion, when something on the radio caught my attention. My body went rigid as a familiar voice came clearly through the transmitter. Was I dreaming? It sounded like Tod! I sat up and saw that the other men were listening just as intently as I. We exchanged mute glances and continued to listen.

"...and so, friends, buddies, I can only say that I fought hard to win for our cause, as you well know. That was because I knew only one side of the controversy—our side. I knew only what our Democracy would let me know. In the six months I've been in this prison camp, I've learned a lot... the other side of the question. You will be startled to hear me say that in comparison with the democratic way of life, this Communist prison camp is like a honeymoon. You will be shocked at first, and angry, that I, an American officer should speak so glowingly of our enemy's way of life. But I have learned a lot, and I am not given to rash statements, nor snap judgments. Any of you who is lucky enough to be taken prisoner..."

Someone snapped off the radio. Then there was an explosion, like firecrackers, from all parts of the barracks. In the only language in which soldiers can let off steam, they started to give vent to their disgust at what they heard Tod spouting over the radio. As for me, I was completely confused. There was no doubt about it—it was the great hero Tod talking. It was his typical quiet, matter-of-fact style of speech. And there was such conviction, such sincerity in his tone!

I decided to get dressed and look up Carol. I had to find out if she had heard the broadcast by Tod. It was evening before I could get over and I had to wait sometime before she came out. Apparently some big brass was in there having a conference with her. Suddenly it dawned on me! It must be about that broadcast! I was right. After the officers had left Carol hurried out to me and we went into the women's parlor.

"Hank, that broadcast! Have you heard it?" she blurted out.

"That's what I came to see you about," I answered. "So you heard Tod, too?"

There was an odd smile on her lips. "Those officers, Hank, brought me a recording of what Tod said. I hadn't heard it," she explained to me. "Well," I said, "What do you think?"

She smiled more broadly. "You don't believe Tod meant that tommyrot, Hank? Now, confess, do you?"

It was hard to explain my confused feelings. But I tried. "I'd swear it wasn't Tod talking—only, obviously, it was. He didn't sound as though he was being tortured into saying those awful things. But Tod couldn't mean it..."

Carol was looking at me intently, then she placed her hand on mine. "Hank, you're Tod's buddy so I'm going to tell you something confidential. They brought me that recording to identify Tod's voice and to see if any ideas occurred to me after listening as to what he was saying. Hank—I think I know where Tod is imprisoned. When he said "this Communist prison camp is like a honeymoon" he was telling me that the underground tank depot is the town we stopped at when we were on our honeymoon trip."

I stared at Carol in amazement. "Yes," she went on, "I told it to the officers and they're going to send a paratropp mission to try to knockout the depot and make a rescue." Behind her quiet smile, she was tense, nervous, but here was the first ray of hope she'd had in six months that she might see Tod again.

The wait for the helicopter seemed endless but finally the plane came whirling down to the field and we climbed in. We were off to the place Carol had designated. We had been briefed in great detail of our task but we could not help wondering—"Is he really there? Is it just woman's intuition sending us off on this dangerous mission?"

Carol's information, and intuition, were correct. We found the tank depot and succeeded in planting the dynamite. When the explosion went off we knew we had destroyed a dangerous trap to our forces, but we lost half the squad on the mission. We didn't even attempt the rescue of Tod. Our remaining numbers got back to the helicopter by a hair's breadth.

We weren't keeping long in suspense as to Tod's fate. The next day the Red station blared again, announcing that Tod had been executed. Through all the abuse and contempt the announcer heaped on our forces, we learned that the Commies had caught on to Tod's tip-off to us in his radio broadcast. Their revenge was swift—but Tod died as he had fought—a hero.

"The Bride of Death" by Ellen Lynn

My name is Boswell Granger, and I am a scientist and explorer. Most of my work takes me to Africa and it was while I was in a remote little village inhabited by a particularly primitive tribe that word reach me by runner that my daughter, Rima, was born in New York. That day the tribal drums boomed louder than usual and soon I knew why. For I came upon a strange ritual around the birth of another little girl, Lali. She had been born with a wondrous mark on her thigh—the clear outlines of a flame.

Word had spread rapidly through the village of this momentous event. The mother, Hahni, was summoned to appear before the Chief. Hahni had often helped me in my work during my sojourn near that little village. She had picked up a small working-stock of English from me and with my little knowledge of the native tongue we were able to make ourselves understood to each other and had become friends. When her baby was expected she indicated a wish that I be around; she had confidence in my knowledge of medicine. I warned her that the witch-doctor would be angry—but she was quite a courageous person and had insisted—"Want—babee—born—Good, healthy."

I waited impatiently for Hahni to return from her conference with the Chief. What did he want of her? And why had they sent a woman to get the baby, Lali, and bring her to the pow-wow? Suddenly there were loud outcries. I rushed out of Hahni's hut and saw practically the whole tribe milling about the Chief's "palace." Hahni stood with her hands covering her face. The Chief stood next to her—his face expressionless. Near him was the old witch-doctor holding the baby, Lali—completely nude—high in the air on the flat of his palms. He was singing, or droning—and his voice reached a high treble pitch like a thin scream.

It wasn't until the next day when I returned to the village that I discovered the meaning of that disturbing scene. Hahni, in tears, told me that the mark on Lali's thigh had been interpreted by the witch-doctor as a sign from the gods of the tribe. Lali had been chosen by the Fire God to be his bride. When she reached the age of three she was to be married to the volcanic god.

"I—want—babee—so long time! Lali—must—be mine always." Hahni was broken-hearted.

I felt a sense of guilt. By teaching her so many things outside of her world of the primitive village, I had created a rebelliousness in Hahni that was leading her into unhappiness and trouble. Repugnant as it was to me to think of this little human being taken from her to be hand maiden to the witch doctor to these primitive people such a choice was a tremendous honor. The family thus selected achieves many privileges. Those were the customs and beliefs of this primitive tribe—and it was the place where Hahni had to live. I had upset all these things for her.

My words to her were halting and forced. "Hahni—you are much honored. Your daughter will be a bride of the god of fire. You will be very important."

"No—no!" she cried, much like a western mother, "I—love—little—babee."

"What is the mark on Lali's thigh?" I asked.

"Like—fire—flame," Hahni answered. "Here, see—this!" She showed me the amulet she always wore around her neck. It was of stone and a crude image of a pointed flame had been carved in its hard surface.

A tall bronzed figure stood in the entrance of her hut. His face looked unfriendly as he pointed straight at me. "You—come," he demanded. I looked at Hahni and she nodded, her eyes fearful. I thought it was best to comply. From the beginning the chief of this tribe and the witch-doctor had been quite hostile toward me and I had to make numerous presents to them.

They were waiting for me in the Chief's kraal. I knew this was not going to be a pleasant talk. In fact, when I gathered that I was being asked to leave the village, and never return, I was almost relieved. There were some bad moments when it looked as though I would never get out of the place—alive!

On my journey "out" I tried to analyze the whole episode. Of course, Lali's birthmark, to these highly superstitious people, would quite normally be a sign to them—its odd shape, suggesting a pointed flame, indicated a message from the all-powerful god of Fire. But could it be that the witch-doctor felt his position of all-wise, final authority being shaken by my presence? Hahni was the first to flaunt him—refusing his herbs, his stones and incantations to bring the baby to birth. Others might follow. Undoubtedly, he worked on the Chief and his advisers to get rid of me. I felt lucky to escape.

But the whole episode soon drifted from my mind. The Museum for which I had taken this expedition had sent a call for my immediate departure and the prospect of seeing my new daughter—superseded all other thoughts. Occasionally Hahni and her baby came before my mind but as the distance away from Africa increased, so the sharpness of that experience dimmed. After all, I was quite accustomed to the primitive ways of these tribes and only my personal friendship with Hahni stirred a keener sympathy for the plight of a mother who was going to lose the personal keeping of her child. Eventually I forgot the whole thing.

The next two years were spent close to my family. Then in 1948 I had to return to Africa on a short mission. I bade my wife and adorable daughter, Rima, goodbye, happy in the thought I would soon return. The night I arrived near the jungle I went to my tent early. A brilliant moon half-lighted my tent and in the shadows I saw something move. I made out a native woman—standing with one arm outstretched in a gesture of appeal. Softly, she called, "Doc-teur—help me,—please!"

"Why—It's you, Hahni! What's the trouble?"

She burst into tears. Her story of her little girl, Lali, brought back to me that strange ritual—yes, it was almost three years ago! Quite a coincidence that I should have returned here at this time!

"I prayed—you—come—help me. Two more weeks—Lali become bride of Fire God—but they want to throw her into volcano!" Her sobs—those of a broken-hearted mother—moved me deeply.

"Oh no! I thought they gave up that practice long ago." I tried to console her. "Your people consider that part of your religion. What can I do? They would tear me apart if I interfered."

"I—like—your—religion. Your one God is—not cruel—would not kill little babee..." Hahni amazed me with her answer. An idea occurred to me how I might help her. It was a bold plan and its failure might spell death for Hahni and me. The courageous Hahni was, of course, ready to risk everything.

I took out a small kodak camera from my bag and gave Hahni a lesson in how to use it. She was an apt pupil. I loaded it with color film and told her I would return to her village with her at once and she would secretly take a picture of Lali. Then we would return as quickly as possible.

I got in touch with a friend of mine—a well-known sculptor—and told him my plan—that he was to make a life-sized reproduction of the little Lali, whose picture I would give him. He was intrigued by the dramatic story though he cautioned me of the danger. I was, of course, only too aware of that. Everything went according to plan. Hahni took an excellent picture of Lali—a beautiful, dark child with enormous black eyes—Gallon, my sculptor friend, went to work immediately and created a vivid likeness. Now we were ready to try to save Lali. The day arrived when the "Bride" was to be sacrificed to the god of the Fire. Gallon and I were tense the whole day—wondering whether Hahni had succeeded in substituting the reproduction of Lali for her own little girl. It was the next night she came to me—and she had Lali with her! She was excited—and happy. And so was I. She had hidden Lali and then had carried the sculptured figure to the volcano herself. It was dressed in bridal array and the witch-doctor had made his incantations over it then swept it from Hahni's arms and hurled it into the flame of the volcano. We decided to put Lali into a convent where she would be raised by the sympathetic sisters. Hahni was elated.

We said goodbye and that was the last time I ever saw Hahni—alive.

It was a long four years before I came to Johannesburg again... this time with my wife and daughter Rima. I was visiting Gallon, when suddenly I thought of Hahni. "Whatever became of them?" I inquired. Somehow it came as a shock to learn that Hahni was dead. The story Gallon told me was that in the course of the past four years the village had been struck with many disasters. Nothing the witch-doctor could do with his magic could stop the tragedies that befell the natives. He had always been suspicious of Hahni, and he finally got a confession from her of her substitution. "What happened then?" I urged Gallon. The whole village was aroused to fury. The god of fire had been defrauded of his bride and had cursed them all these years. Another girl, the same age as Lali, must be given to appease the angry god. I shivered when I heard this. "And—and—what happened to Hahni?" I asked. "They stoned her to death," was the horrible answer.

What happened afterward is difficult to tell. In the night my wife came crying to me—"Rima—I can't find her—where could she have gone?" An ancient native had been playing with her. Then I knew. I took my friend, Gallon, with me. Some natives paddled us to the village. My blood turned cold when I saw the ritual being conducted at the mouth of the volcano. A child, whimpering, was being held aloft in the arms of the witch-doctor. Horrible to say—it was my own daughter, Rima. I couldn't think—but my hand automatically reached for my gun. I knew it could not save her, but—then an amazing thing—a miracle?—happened. A woman with flowing black hair and a white gown suddenly appeared behind the witch-doctor, grabbed Rima in one arm and plunged a blade in the back of the old man. With a piercing shriek, the old man fell into the volcano.

A hush fell on the crowd of natives. They fell on their knees and after a while slithered away. I rushed forward—Gallon at my heels. I picked up my little girl—mercifully they had given her some drug and she was only half-conscious. Holding her close to my breast, I kneeled down to pick up something gleaming on the ground. It was Hahni's amulet—with the flame chiseled in its surface! Had she come back to help me? But from where?

"Strange Curse of the Mountain" by Ellen Lynn

Most people think of a mountain as a thing of majesty, beauty, or sport. But to me a mountain is a thing of terror, strange mystery and horrible death.

Our little village of Glencairn, consisting of only twenty families, once lived a happy, busy life at the foot of the magnificent mountain-peak, St. Anne. We all loved our beautiful mountain—and, strange as it may sound, we felt that Mt. St. Anne loved us. No one in our community ever lost his life on that mountain—although we got our livelihood solely from its resources. There were never landslides in the summer, nor snow avalanches in the spring, which made us feel as though we were especially protected.

It was two years ago that the notorious Bailey Ferris made a surprise visit to our village. His powerful car took to our rough roads with amazing ease and speed. In the flashy style of the typical gambler, Bailey made a handsome and striking appearance, but I remember how I felt suddenly afraid to see this bold outsider looking over our secluded, peaceful village.

My daughter, Janice; the village teacher, was just coming out of the little schoolhouse and I saw her stop and stare at Bailey Ferris. He was staring at her, too—and again a pang of sudden, unexplained fear coursed through me. There were two other flashy-looking individuals in the car with him and soon they continued on their way.

The whole village was agog over this visit of the notorious gambler. We all wondered what he could possibly want here, and we all were nervous. His entire stay lasted a week but his activities were completely mysterious. The second day he paid a call at the schoolhouse. When my daughter, Janice, came home she seemed unusually distracted, a strange smile hovering on her lips.

"Dad," she said sometime later, "Bailey Ferris came to the school today. He introduced himself—didn't try to hide his identity from me. When—when you talk to him he—he doesn't seem like a notorious character at all."

"Watch your step, daughter," was all I could say. "That's all front. He's got a bad reputation, and there must be a reason for it."

But Janice seemed to be caught in a spell. She spent some part of every day in his company and I dreaded seeing the brightness in her eyes, hearing the lilt in her laugh whenever she returned from some date with Bailey.

It was the sixth day that the blow fell heavily on our village. It got around fast that Bailey was there to oust us from the village, buy up all the land and set up a gambling and ski resort. Underneath the shock of this news I felt also a sense of relief: now Janice would see this Bailey as he really was and would get over the infatuation—or whatever it was—that she obviously was experiencing.

Our little band fought with every means we knew, short of violence, to resist the despoiling of our happy village of Glencairn, but nothing could stop a man from buying up property that was available—and none of us owned the land we had lived on so many years.

That day I noticed Janice was in a state of gloom—to my relief. She came straight home after school and was going that night to the square dance with Hunt Harris. "She'll get over it," I assured myself. "She couldn't really love such a heel." All the villagers, even the older generation, go to the square dances and I accompanied the young folks there. Janice danced—the young men wouldn't leave her alone. She was a mighty pretty girl and very popular. But she was not herself. I was sure she was thinking of that Bailey Ferris.

Then, for one moment, I saw her eyes light up. Bailey had come into the door. He beckoned to her and I saw her hesitate. Then she left her partner and went to Bailey. They had a heated argument; he was grabbing her arm and I started to go to them on the steps outside when Janice pulled away and came back into the room, her eyes flashing. Bailey dashed into his car and sped away.

The next day we all received notices that we had a month to get out. There was nothing we could do so we decided to move en masse to the other side of Mt. St. Anne where some broken-down dwellings, long deserted, still stood. We would repair them as best we could in the short time and move in. People, years ago, had tried living there but many disasters—landslides, avalanches—had finally forced them to leave. Gloomily, we all took up our lives there and in a mood of pessimism called our new village, "Hope's End." In a year's time, Bailey Ferris had built up a lavish resort at Glencairn, where the rich came to gamble and ski. With bitterness in our hearts toward him, we all kept to ourselves and made it a matter of principle never to return to Glencairn.

But Janice returned there. To my grief, she had fallen madly in love with Bailey and when one day he appeared at our house to see her she went gladly with him—despite my protests, warnings, threats. How I wish it weren't so, but he seemed to be really in love with Janice and wanted to lavish her with the luxuries of his misbegotten wealth. He told her they would be married. Then, as he walked out of the house with my daughter, he laughed at me. In a rage, I called down the curse of the mountain upon him. I demanded revenge and asked our mountain to wreak vengeance upon Bailey Ferris.

The life at Glencairn proved a horrible disappointment to Janice—the gambling, drinking, card playing, with Bailey usually engaged in a game of poker were not to Janice's taste. Her love for Bailey was real but she led an unhappy existence. And she couldn't come back to "Hope's End." She had become an outcast to the bitter villagers.

One early morning, with the snow on Mt. St. Anne glistening in a brilliant sunlight, Janice went out alone for a ski run. She reached the very top with the ski-tow and then started down. Then that dreaded sound of an avalanche—a loud roar—broke the morning silence. Number with terror Janice made a futile attempt to change her course but tons of snow and ice hurtled down and overwhelmed her. Her groping fingers, her struggling arms reached upward—but she sank into unconsciousness.

The disaster had been seen in Glencairn. A rescue party set out immediately and in a few hours Janice was found and brought below. By a wondrous miracle she was alive, and I'll say this much for Bailey, he saw that she got every possible attention, medical and nursing. He showered her with gifts and affection.

Two days after the accident, Janice wanted to speak to Bailey. She seemed anxious, overwrought. "Bailey—I must tell you," she began. "But—you won't believe it. It will sound crazy."

"Tell me anyway," Bailey urged her. "Let's hear what it's all about, honey."

"You know," she began, "I had been completely buried under the snow. I felt myself suffocating, gasping for air, but my nostrils were clogged with snow. Then I felt hands grabbing me. Snow was being shoveled away from me and I was being pulled out from that cold grave. In my shocked state I thought I was dreaming but the hands belonged to—oh, you'll think me mad—to a—skeleton! And the other pair to a creature—like a bat—but tall, almost human. I fell unconscious, but I came to again in a shallow cave. Again I saw the same—creatures. They were playing cards! They were talking. The skeleton belonged to a man who had been killed by an avalanche on the wrong side of the mountain—where we built 'Hope's End.' The other thing—was a Vampire! He considered the entire mountain his domain—and the two things were gambling—the skeleton for my—my soul, the vampire for my blood!"

Bailey started to laugh. "Baby, your head was hit. That was a fancy dream you had."

"Stop! Stop laughing!" Janice yelled. "I tell you it wasn't a dream. We all heard the rescue party approaching. The one that was the Vampire said—'We can wait—we have all the time in the world.' From fright, shock, horror, I passed out again—but those creatures were there I tell you."

Janice was so overwrought, Bailey could not quiet her. "All right," he said finally. "We'll form a skiing party and go back to the sport where we found you. Whatever it was there that scared you—we'll come back and tell you about it." Half afraid, half eager to know, Janice agreed that a group should go.

When the time came Janice was ready to join the party. Bailey was angry and tried to stop her, but she was firm, insisted upon going along.

The party went to the peak by the tow-line, then Janice, holding hands with Bailey, led the way down. Some strange force seemed to be pulling her downward, her eyes were bright and her lips were smiling. The people following could not get the speed that carried Janice and Bailey far ahead and out of sight.

And then again tragedy fell. A terrific avalanche started just ahead of the scouting party and they stopped short, horrified at the realization that the two skiers ahead were bound to be hit by the falling snow and ice.

It was all over quickly. Becoming a searching party, the skiers hurried to get to Janice and Bailey, hoping against hope that they would not be too late. Suddenly a skier let out a frantic yell—he had come upon a cave. As they all hastened inside the sight they beheld left them speechless.

A motionless skeleton, in a sitting position propped up against a wall, was facing another skeleton—whose queer outlines, with winglike appendages, made them all remember as though with one thought, Janice's story of the gamble for her soul. An ace of spades lay between them upturned—and lying on the ground dead were the bodies of—Janice and Bailey.

But no one ever knew which creature won the gamble.

"The Ghost in the Mirror" by Ellen Lynn

Ellen Garth was always a strange child. She was always pretending she was hearing voices. She was only fifteen when I first saw her—and already showing promise of unusual beauty. But she was childlike, quiet, moody and I first came upon her when I was out riding my horse, Letty. She was stretched out prone by the side of the brook, and her slim white hand was dangling in the rushing water. So absorbed was she in this simple pastime that she hadn't even heard my horse's feet on the shrubs as we approached her. It was difficult to get her to talk, but when I dismounted and sat down beside her, remaining silent and watching the moving waters with her, she seemed to gain confidence—and from that time on we were friends.

It was just a week since I had been hired by Mr. Fred Garth as a general overseer on his farm. He knew I had left the agricultural school where I had been studying because my father had suffered financial losses and I wanted to go out and start earning my livelihood. The school had told him that I was a very "promising" student, and the truth is I was keenly disappointed at having to give up my studies in scientific farming.

"Ken Farrell," Mr. Garth approached me, "this may surprise you, but I'm going to make you manager of this farm. Frankly, I'm much impressed with you. That agricultural school must have taught you a lot."

I flushed with pleasure and surprise. "Why—thank you, Mr. Garth. I hope I can measure up to your confidence in me."

Suddenly, Mr. Garth staggered. I had to grab his arm to keep him from falling. He was clutching his chest and his face was ghastly white. After I had helped him into the house and he had sat a while, he was able to talk. "Ken, I have a bad heart. I am lucky you came to this farm when you did. My mind is at peace to have a competent person in charge. You're young—but you're smart. Promise me you'll stay and look out for my wife and daughter, Ellen."

A month later, Fred Garth was dead. Dr. Sidney Allen, a neighbor, called every evening on the widow, Grace. She was a frail, lovely-looking woman—who seemed confused and lost without her husband.

One day Mrs. Garth called me to the house. "Ken," she said, "I am going to remarry. This may shock people—it's only a few months since Fred died—but I'm a helpless creature and I feel that Ellen should have a father. I love my girl dearly—but it was always Fred who saw to her upbringing and I'm afraid of the responsibility." She paused and her eyes were filled with tears. Then—"I'm going to marry Dr. Allen. He was the first to point out that Ellen needs a father."

There was something about Sidney Allen that I did not like. He was too smooth—and underneath there seemed to be a hard core. He had come to live at the Garth Farm and was devoting less and less time to the practice of medicine. Surprisingly, he kept me on as Manager, after he had married Grace Garth, undoubtedly, because he knew less about running it than I did—and the Farm was doing well. But it soon became clear who was "master" of the family. He seemed to rule the household with an iron hand. It was soon obvious that Allen hadn't married for mere love. Poor Mrs. Garth had gone into a decline and kept to her bed a good deal. She would come downstairs only to be near Ellen, to protect her as much as she could. Ellen often sat with her, reading aloud, or just holding her hand. At other times Grace sat for hours before the strange mirror in her boudoir, a gift from Ellen's father.

I found myself growing more and more interested in Ellen. We often rode out together on our horses and I loved to make her laugh, to see her acting young and carefree. Even when I knew I had fallen deeply in love with her, I felt she was not quite ready for such a declaration. I would wait until she had awakened to her feeling for me—and I felt certain that she was beginning to fall in love with me. Then I would be able to take her away from her grasping stepfather, whose only god was greed. So I waited.

As I was being let into the foyer one evening, I could hear Dr. Allen's voice, sharp, angry, coming from the parlor. He had asked me to come at eight o'clock and I decided to sit there and wait till he finished what sounded like a family argument. I had no intention of eavesdropping and was deciding to leave and come back in a half-hour when my own name entered into the discussion. Much to my amazement, I heard Dr. Allen objecting to Ellen's mother that Ellen was getting too "chummy" with that Ken Farrell. "Don't let her get any romantic notions about our farm manager," he said. "She's nearly seventeen and it's time to think of her settling down and marrying. In fact, Ben Anderson and I have talked about Ellen and him. Our farms adjoin and we could combine the two and run a real enterprise. Ben is a smart boy and runs his farm practically singlehanded. That boy, Ken, tries to run our place by books. Ellen must stop seeing him—you know of course what he's after—this farm..."

"Oh no, Sidney, you can't. You must not. Ben is fifty, old enough to be her grandfather. He's a miser. He'll beat her." The gentle Grace was wild, infuriated.

"I married you to protect her," wept Grace. "I vow to you I will save her, even if I have to come back from the dead to do it."

Events moved fast after this. Suddenly there was a thud as though someone had fallen. Throwing caution to the winds, I hurried into the parlor and saw Mrs. Allen crumpled on the floor. Dr. Allen was saying—"It's her heart, poor dear. It's all over. Oh, God, why has this happened to me?"

Dr. Allen rushed me out of my job and out of the house. My only comfort was the determination that I would come back for Ellen. So grief-stricken was she, and so watched over by her step-father, I couldn't even see her before I left. But I got to know all the details of the occurrences after I left. Strange as they were, I finally returned, just in time.

Mrs. Garth—or Mrs. Allen—had left a will bequeathing all the lands to Dr. Allen with one odd condition: that he never part with the large, brass-framed mirror that hung in her boudoir. Dr. Allen called it a crazy idea—"Poor Grace was getting unbalanced toward the end"—but there was nothing he could do about it—he had to obey the conditions of the will.

The shock of her mother's death and the harshness of her stepfather toward her gentle mother and herself, had a serious affect on Ellen. She retreated more and more into herself. The little resistance she had put up against him while her mother was alive disappeared. She was now meek and obedient to the wishes of Dr. Allen. The only time she seemed happy was when she sat in her mother's boudoir before that large, brass-framed mirror.

"You don't have to sit there admiring yourself, Miss," her step-father sarcastically informed her. "You have an admirer downstairs waiting to see you. Ben Anderson is ready to marry you and the sooner you settle down with him the better."

"It isn't myself I see in that mirror," Ellen replied. "My mother talks to me."

"Ben better marry you soon—before he discovers you're balmy," Dr. Allen laughed. "What does your mother say to you, pray tell?"

"She tells me not to worry—that she can be a better mother to me now than she ever was before... that she is stronger and can protect me from all evil..."

Ellen's stepfather snorted—"So now we believe in ghosts—and this is a haunted house! Enough of this foolishness. Make yourself presentable and go downstairs to see your fiance."

Doing as she was bid, Ellen went down to see Ben Anderson. But Dr. Allen was disturbed by her calm self-assurance, by her contented smile. Truthfully, she didn't seem unbalanced of mind at all. What trickery was going on? Hearing the remote voices of Ellen and Ben downstairs in the parlor, he was about to join them to bring things to a head concerning their marriage, when he stopped at the open door of the boudoir. Was he imagining things? A soft voice, like Grace's, called his name: "Sidney—Sidney—in here... come in here..." It was some kind of hallucination, but Dr. Allen boldly walked into the room. In the dark boudoir, faintly illumined by the moon through the windows, he thought he saw a shadow playing upon the surface of the brass-framed mirror. It was just a train of thought that made him imagine it had the outlines of—Grace. With a sneer he turned to walk out of the room when again he heard that soft voice: "Sidney—come—follow me—you must—follow me..." Wheeling around, he saw the shadow on the mirror fade away. A sudden chill came over him and he hurried downstairs.

Dr. Allen hastened the date of the wedding and it was noted by all that Ellen went about her preparations pleasantly, patiently. Everyone knew she was waiting, waiting for something to happen—something sure to stop the wedding. The atmosphere was charged with tension. It was like racing against Time, with Dr. Allen rushing to get that marriage over before anything could happen. The only composed person was—Ellen.

When the wedding day arrived and the guests started to come, Dr. Allen's face wore a triumphant smile. He even patted his neighbor on the back, "Well, Ben, we're practically partners now. Let's shake on it."

Then he saw me enter the house. I could see the expression of fury on his face. In scarcely suppressed tones of anger, he approached me, saying, "Ken Farrell, only invited guests may come to Ellen's wedding." I answered, "That is why I am here, Dr. Allen. Ellen sent me a letter inviting me here." He appeared highly nervous and I watched him hurry up the stairs. What happened—I learned later. He found Ellen in her bridal attire, sitting before the Mirror. He heard a voice say: "Darling, you will not marry Ben—you may be sure of that. I shall keep my promise." Then he saw the same shadow in the Mirror—"Come, Sidney—follow me—you must, you know..." With a burst of fury and a loud scream, Dr. Allen rushed to the Mirror and hammered it with his fists—"You witch," he yelled, "I don't know what trickery Ellen is up to but here's what I think of your ugly mirror—and this wedding will take care of your Will." There was a resounding crash as Dr. Allen's blows splintered the mirror and the heavy glass came clattering down. Blood was streaming from his pierced wrists and he fell heavily to the floor.

All the guests had rushed upstairs upon hearing the clamor. There I saw my beautiful Ellen, her face horrified—but she rushed to me and I enfolded her in my arms. Her letter had merely told me to come today—there was an urgency about it—but now her eyes told me what for so long I had hoped to see—that she loved me. Ellen had felt that I in some way would save her from her marriage to Ben.

But was it play-acting? Sure it couldn't be, you will say. But there, glistening on the floor near the shattered glass, like a protective amulet, was the gold wedding band which Ellen's mother had worn in death and which was buried with her!