A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, December 1949 — page 60: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

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MERRITT’S FANTASY Bill nodded: “Why not come up and deep hidden alarm going off. I shook my head: “Can’t do it, Bill. I’ve got work =StO do. You can tell me about it tomor- row.” He got up. “Thinking you might change - your mind about that rendezvous with the Demoiselle ?” “No chance,” I answered. “Give my love to Helen. And tell her I don’t mean maybe. Tell her I’m taking no more jour- neys. She'll understand ” I did spend that afternoon working; | and that night. Now and then I had an uncomfortable feeling that some one was watching me. Bill called up next day to say that McCann had gone to Rhode Island. Helen got on the phone. and said she had received my message and would Her voice was warm and sweet and somehow—cleansing. | wanted to go, but that deep hidden alarm was shrilling, peremptorily. I apologized— rather awkwardly. She asked: “You haven’t it in your stubborn head -that you’d carry some witch taint with you, have you?”’ I said: “No. But | might carry danger to you.” She said: ‘‘I’m not afraid of the Demoi- ~~ selle. 1-know how to fight her, Alan.” == -pidity!” _ speak. Tasked: “What do you mean by that?” She said. furiously: ‘Damn your stu- ‘And hung up before I could ] was puzzied, and | was troubled. The jnexplicable warning to keep away from Dr. Lowell's and from Helen was insist- - ent, not to be disregarded. At last I threw my notes into a bag with some clothes and sought shelter in a little hideaway hotel ] knew, after having sent Bill a note telling him where he could find me but warn- ing him not to tell Helen. I said I had the strongest reasons for this temporary ob- scuration. So ] had. even though I didn’t know what they were. That was Tuesday. On Friday I went back to the Club. I found two notes from the Demoiselle. One must have come just after I had left for the hideout. It read: “There was a debt from you to me. In part, you have paid it. There is not nor ever was a debt E from me to you. Beloved—come to me tonight.” The other had been delivered the day after. It read: “I go to join my father in his work. When next I call you see to it that you come. I have sent a souvenir that you may not forget this.” | read and re-read those notes, wonder- ing. In the first there was appeal, longing ; the kind of letter any woman might write to some reluctant lover. In the other was menace. Uneasily, I paced the floor; then called up Bill. He said: “So you're back. I'll be right down.” He was there in half an hour. seemed a little on edge. I asked: “Anything new?” He sat down and said casually, a bit too casually: ‘Well, yes. She’s pinned one on me.” ] said, dumbly, “‘Who’s done what?” He answered: ‘“Dahut. She’s pinned one of her shadows on me.” My feet and hands were suddenly cold and I felt a thin cord draw tight around my throat. The letter in which Dahut had spoken of the souvenir she was sending lay open before me, and I folded it. I said ; “Tell me about it, Bill.” He said: “Don’t look so panicky, Alan. I'm not like Dick and the others. It won’t handle me so easily. But I’m not saying it’s exactly—companionable. By the way, do you see something at my right? Some- thing like a bit of dark curtain—flutter- ing?” He was keeping his eyes upon mine, but the effort of will he was making to do it was plain. They were a bit bloodshot. | looked, intently, and said: “No, Bill. I don’t see a thing.” E SAID: “I'll just shut my eyes, if you don’t mind. Last night I came out of the hospital about eleven. There was a taxi at the curb. The driver was half asleep, hunched over the wheel. [ opened the door and was about to get in when I saw someone—something—move in the far corner of the seat. The cab was fairly dark and I could not determine e whether it was a man or a woman. I said: idle.’ And I stepped back. 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