gas main underground—but again I could correct them if I dared. It was unspeakably shocking, and I do not see how I lived through it. I did faint after emptying the fourth carboy, which I had to handle after the fumes had begun to penetrate my mask; but when I recovered I saw that the hole was emitting no fresh vapors.
The two remaining carboys I emptied down without particular result, and after a time I felt it safe to shovel the earth back into the pit. It was twilight before I was done, but fear had gone out of the place. The dampness was less fetid, and all the strange fungi had withered to a kind of harmless grayish powder which blew ash-like along the floor. One of earth’s nethermost terrors had perished for ever; and if there be a hell, it had received at last the demon soul of an unhallowed thing. And as I patted down the last spadeful of mold, I shed the first of the many tears with which I have paid unaffected tribute to my beloved uncle’s memory.
The next spring no more pale grass and strange weeds came up in the shunned house’s terraced garden, and shortly afterward Carrington Harris rented the place. It is still spectral, but its strangeness fascinates me, and I shall find mixed with my relief a queer regret when it is torn down to make way for a tawdry shop or vulgar apartment building. The barren old trees in the yard have begun to bear small, sweet apples, and last year the birds nested in their gnarled boughs.
Way Station
By Mary Elizabeth Counselman
Rain whipped at the little car, plastering sheets of water against the windshield faster than the wipers could fan it clear. The man at the wheel, crouched forward to peer through the blinding storm, ran a palm quickly over the misted glass; then smiled and patted the knee of the girl pressed close to his side.
“Honey—we can’t go on in this downpour. Better pull off the highway, at least until I can see three feet ahead! . . . Cold?” he inquired tenderly, as the slender body shivered against him.
The girl shook her head. “Just . . . nervous, I guess.” She smiled back, with a studied attempt at gaiety. “After all, this is my first honeymoon!”
“Some honeymoon!” The bridegroom, a tall stocky young man, whose army uniform contrasted grimly with his bride’s frilly suit and flower-hat—laughed wryly. “For so long I’ve been dreaming of this, slogging around in the rain in Korea . . . A furlough! Ah-h! We’d spend a wonderful, sunny week together in a musical-comedy setting! And what do I get?” He chuckled. “More rain! Besides,” he added sheepishly, “I think I took a wrong turn back there someplace. Can’t see any road-signs in all this . . .”
He broke off, slowing the car at sight of a byroad at right angles to the paved highway ahead. Pulling off into it, he discovered it to be the entrance of a gravel driveway, ill kept and deeply pitted with holes. As the car jolted to a standstill, deluged by a fresh downpour, a huge truck rumbled past—dangerously close as it hugged the edge of the pavement. The young soldier whistled; tipped back his cap; mopped his face.
“Whew! That was close! Can’t tell when those trailers will sideswipe you on a wet road . . .”
“Like a dinosaur’s tail?” His bride giggled, snuggling against him. “I wasn’t worried, Tom. Not with you driving.”
The boy grinned, and held her close for a moment. “No? I’m glad you have such confidence in me. Wish I had as much! And knew where the merry hell we are!
He rolled down a window glass. Rain lashed at him as he peered out, straining his eyes through the storm-hastened twilight. With a movable search-lamp he swept a yellow arc of brilliance, like a finger pushing at the curtain of rain. It halted abruptly.
“Hey! Some kind of sign up there on a post . . . FARADAY HOUSE,” he read with difficulty. “Miss Adelaide Faraday, Prop. Overnight . . .” A grin curved his anxious mouth. “Well! How about that for luck? It’s a tourist home!” The finger of light probed deeper into the rain, seeking out a dim white blur at the end of the gravel drive. “Doesn’t look too bad. One of those old Gone-with-the-wind jobs. White-columned veranda, fanlight over the door. They probably serve wonderful meals; fried chicken and biscuits. How about it, Jean baby? Take a look . . .”
The girl was looking—not at the storm-blurred house, but at her husband’s earnest expression.
“Anyplace,” she whispered. “Any place at all, darling. So long as we can be together, even for . . . a little while.” Her eyes misted over suddenly, like the rainy windshield, traveling from the boy’s eager young face to the chevrons on his khaki sleeve. “A week! Just a week . . .”
The shadow of fear rose between them abruptly at her words, the dark fear of all lovers—that of being separated, of being torn apart by forces stronger than the love that bound them together. The boy reached out, snatched his young bride into his embrace, and held her tight. She clung to him, sobbing.
“Oh, Tommy! If only you didn’t have to go back! So . . . so soon!”
“Hey, now! We promised to pretend. Remember?” His voice as he tried to comfort her was unsteady, but determinedly light. “Time is relative,” he chanted the familiar ritual. “A day can be 24 hours—or a minute. Or ten years! We have seven days, hull? Seven times ten are seventy. . . . Why, we’ve already been married—let’s see—fifteen years! Wednesday will be our Golden Anniversary! And by Friday, when I have to . . . to . . . say, how long can a guy stand being married to one old hag?”
The sobbing against his shoulder ceased. With a forlorn but game little sniff, the bride sat up and managed a wavery grin.
“Okay . . .” As the rain slacked briefly, she peered out, following the pointing finger of the searchlight. “It . . . it looks kind of . . . old and rundown. Maybe they won’t charge as much as a motel,” she added practically, “and we can have more to spend in Florida!”
“Women!” The bridegroom hooted, steering the car up the driveway. “Right in the middle of a tender love-scene, they start worrying about the budget! Can’t you dames . . . ever . . . ?”
His voice trailed as the car, following the curve of the gravel drive, came to a halt in front of the big white house they had dimly glimpsed through the rain. On closer inspection, it was very badly in need of repair. Paint curled on the heavy fluted columns, one of which slanted at a dangerous angle. The fanlight over the door looked like a grinning mouth with several teeth out, and the ornate brass knocker was tarnished black; so black that the young couple could barely make out the name engraved on it: FARADAY. Somewhere a shutter creaked on a rusty hinge, with a sound like a groan of pain. Yet, in front of the door, a shabby Welcome mat gave a contrasting note of hospitality.
Drenched, shivering, the newlyweds hesitated on the wide veranda. They looked at each other, debating whether to knock or climb back into their car and drive on.
Their decision was made for them, quite without warning, the front door swung open, and a giant Negro in the worn livery of a butler towered over them. His short-cropped kinky hair was snow-white—as were the irises of his eyes, which remained fixed on a point just above Tom’s prickling scalp. Involuntarily, Jean gasped and edged closer to her husband, staring up at the man—who was almost seven feet tall. At her slight noise, the milky eyes followed her; and they realized that he was blind.
“We . . . we wondered if . . . ? I mean, we saw your sign. And it was raining so hard . . .” Tom’s hearty voice gave out.
For the sound of his vibrant young baritone
