Avon Fantasy Reader No. 14 — page 108: what you’re looking at

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

Rolling, squirming, writhing its way out of the opening was a naked, arm- less, leyless, eyeless, earless Thing. It paused on the threshold, as if it sensed our presence, mewed once, like a frightened kitten, then continued its weirdly painful progress until it reached the door. The cyclops got up, opened the door, and it rolled out. I rose, nauseated. Through the wide-open doorway | could sce that the shadows had lengthened considerably; that, in fact, ime had passed so swiftly that it was nearly twilight. The idea of spending the night here, which I'd originally entertained, now left me trembling. “Let's get on down to the Keep!” I cried. “Let’s get on down. I want to see these things, buy them if I can, and leave!” The cyclops licked the edge of his mouth with a thick, coal-black tongue. I shoved some bills into his hand and we both sallied forth into the deepening dusk, walking briskly to the brook and following it down into the sink. “Buy them!” the cyclops kept hissing to himself with thoughtful glee. “Buy them—and leave!” He seemed to mouth the words as if they tasted good. As we approached the old mill I was struck with the similarity of its design to that of several old castles of Norman vintage that I had seen in England. The silent mill-wheel hung motionless on its broken, rust-eaten axis, the swift waters of the stream breaking about it futilely. As we came more closely toward the old mill house I was struck by the strength of the chemical vapors that swirled into my nostrils. | stopped, half suffocated. The cyclops clutched my arm, grinning. “Come on,” he snarled, “come on.” We stumbled to the bottom of that dank, mephitic pit, waded across the brook, and stepped across the threshold into the open doorway of Kobold’s Keep. Its interior was a revelation. Though laden and crusted with filth, every- thing was, perhaps, as the owner had left it unknown centuries ago. The spacious chambers were timbered with Gothic arches and ornamented with gargoyles of wood. The furniture was of an undetermined pertod. Certainly it antedated any of the so-called “period” furniture that we recognize today —and antedated it, I'll swear, by centuries. As I scuffed through the strange and ancient old house a feeling that was nearly awe encompassed me. If the story of old Robin Kobolder’s voyage to the New World could be authenti- cated a new chapter would be added to American history! At first I was suspicious of the extraordinary state of preservation of the woodwork and, especially, of certain stiff damask draperies IT saw still hang- ing there. I am now convinced, however, that these objects are entirely au- thentic, And the most reasonable conjecture I can offer as to their preserva- tion is that the strong chemical exhalations rising from the ground have served as an effective bactericide, halting the process of decomposition through the centuries. Presently I found myself in a large, nearly empty room, whose pancless windows gaped upon the teetering mill-wheel and the yawning pit into which the brook yanished. It had been, apparently, an armorer’s workshop. A few blades of ancient design and all rust yet hung precariously on the walls. comicloooks.com