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Acolyte, v. 3, issue 1, whole no. 9, Winter 1945
Page 17
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THE KEY JOHN HOLLIS MASON "Pardon me, but you are Eric Kenley, the weird tale author, are you not?" The query was more a statement than a question. I turned. It was the dark man. Several blocks back I had though I noticed a tall figure following me. At first I wasn't sure. Then when I turned off down a small side street, an infrequently used little thoroughfare, and he followed, I knew that I was being trailed. Now I faced him. "That's right." I waited for him to go on. "You must pardon my accosting you this way, but I had to talk to you." His strong, dark face seemed somehow out of place as it mirrored indecision and fear. "Could we go somewhere that we could talk? This street, it....." His voice trailed off. "Certainly," I replied. "I live near here. We can talk at my place in privacy." He looked relieved as we started off down the street, falling into step beside me. As we walked, I turned this strange meeting over in my mind. The dark man seemed to be afraid of something, but where did I fit in? His first speech indicated that he knew of me through my writings and I smiled to myself as I reflect that he might well be a protagonist from one of my own stories, begging help of some well-known believer in that fascinating field so erroneously dubbed the supernatural. It was only a short distance to my apartment, and I was still wondering about my new-found acquaintance when we reached the building. Admitting myself with my key, I beckoned the other inside. I led him directly into the library which serves a s combination den and workshop. On the table in the east window was a big Underwood, around it the scattered sheets of a story that had been engaging my attention for the last month. Built into the walls were utilitarian shelves and bookcases, stacked to overflowing with a melange of books. My guest took all of this in with a glance, then settled into the big chair across from me. "A drink?" He shook his head. "Thank you -- no. I think it would be best if I abstained until I have told you my story." I was becoming interested. So he had sought me out to tell me a story? Perhaps, I reflected with amusement, one of my characters had come to life; perhaps my life was about to be changed by one of my own plots as I changed the lives of the characters in my tales. But somehow the seriousness of this dark stranger soon banished the amusement from such thoughts. He was speaking. "Do you believe in dreams? Do you think, as Dunne maintains, that some of our dreams are the precursors of what is to come?" "That all depends on what you are applying his reasoning to. I've always thought Dunne was as near the truth as anybody, but such a subject is much too extensive to permit of generalisation. So much of our so-called evidence might merely be the fiction of the subconscious. Where can anybody make the demarcation between what is true and what isn't? Like everybody else, Dunne was only guessing." Actually, I held with Dune's theory myself, but until I'd heard what was troubling this man, I felt it unwise to commit myself. "I only wish I could believe that," replied the other. "But I have a feeling of - of absolute, horrible certainty.... "Let me tell you my tale." -- 17 --
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THE KEY JOHN HOLLIS MASON "Pardon me, but you are Eric Kenley, the weird tale author, are you not?" The query was more a statement than a question. I turned. It was the dark man. Several blocks back I had though I noticed a tall figure following me. At first I wasn't sure. Then when I turned off down a small side street, an infrequently used little thoroughfare, and he followed, I knew that I was being trailed. Now I faced him. "That's right." I waited for him to go on. "You must pardon my accosting you this way, but I had to talk to you." His strong, dark face seemed somehow out of place as it mirrored indecision and fear. "Could we go somewhere that we could talk? This street, it....." His voice trailed off. "Certainly," I replied. "I live near here. We can talk at my place in privacy." He looked relieved as we started off down the street, falling into step beside me. As we walked, I turned this strange meeting over in my mind. The dark man seemed to be afraid of something, but where did I fit in? His first speech indicated that he knew of me through my writings and I smiled to myself as I reflect that he might well be a protagonist from one of my own stories, begging help of some well-known believer in that fascinating field so erroneously dubbed the supernatural. It was only a short distance to my apartment, and I was still wondering about my new-found acquaintance when we reached the building. Admitting myself with my key, I beckoned the other inside. I led him directly into the library which serves a s combination den and workshop. On the table in the east window was a big Underwood, around it the scattered sheets of a story that had been engaging my attention for the last month. Built into the walls were utilitarian shelves and bookcases, stacked to overflowing with a melange of books. My guest took all of this in with a glance, then settled into the big chair across from me. "A drink?" He shook his head. "Thank you -- no. I think it would be best if I abstained until I have told you my story." I was becoming interested. So he had sought me out to tell me a story? Perhaps, I reflected with amusement, one of my characters had come to life; perhaps my life was about to be changed by one of my own plots as I changed the lives of the characters in my tales. But somehow the seriousness of this dark stranger soon banished the amusement from such thoughts. He was speaking. "Do you believe in dreams? Do you think, as Dunne maintains, that some of our dreams are the precursors of what is to come?" "That all depends on what you are applying his reasoning to. I've always thought Dunne was as near the truth as anybody, but such a subject is much too extensive to permit of generalisation. So much of our so-called evidence might merely be the fiction of the subconscious. Where can anybody make the demarcation between what is true and what isn't? Like everybody else, Dunne was only guessing." Actually, I held with Dune's theory myself, but until I'd heard what was troubling this man, I felt it unwise to commit myself. "I only wish I could believe that," replied the other. "But I have a feeling of - of absolute, horrible certainty.... "Let me tell you my tale." -- 17 --
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