DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Comet, v. 1, issue 3, May-June 1940

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Comet, v. 1, issue 3, May-June 1940

Page 11

THE COMET     PAGE 11

--HORROR'S CELLAR--

desire to be sick seized me, and the room seemed to reel around. Groping for support, I leaned on the table, and chanced to notice again the typed sheets lying there. 

I need not burden this with a verbatim copying of them. It is easier to state that these pages, rambling though they were, were sufficient proof that Morton had, in a moment of unreasoning anger, killed a man--one Carl Quigley. Why, I know not, and probably never shall. But he had killed the man--and had thrown the body into that dark and awful cellar.

If I were to copy these pages it would be clear to you what happened next. For a full thousand words--perhaps two thousand--Morton rambled on there,in black in white, about the scrapings he had heard after the crime, coming from the cellar. To one reading the pages it was clear how the thing had developed in his mind. A rat, probably, had gotten down there somehow; and had begun gnawing on an old timber each night when the house was still and dark.

Morton's mind had magnified that--his consience had begun to trick him. He had, in his terror, driven heavy nails through the door the next morning, locked it, and thrown the only key to it away. That next night he had lain awake listening for it---and that night he thought the scrapings came nearer. They seemed to drag themselves up the steps each night--first it was one small thud, and then a louder one, as though something down there had crawled up one step and fallen back.

The next night he had believed the process to be repeated---but this time there were two smaller thuds before the louder one! And the following night three---until he had begun to wonder how many steps there were to the door.

It was pitiful. According to the typed confession of the murder, it had occurred two weeks previously. At first he tried to flee the house---but something held him there. Something he could not break free from, despite his every effort. About the fourth night he nailed shut the door; by the twelth he became irrational. Heaven alone knows what he did for food during that time--for from the message, he had not left the house.

And on the fourteenth night he remembered that there were only fourteen steps; and the thing clambered to the thirteenth that night. 

All of the next day he had worked up his madness to an almost unendurable pitch; when the darkness fell, he was near raving, it was evident; at midnight his reason had snapped.

That was as far as the manuscript went---but it was far enough. What had happened then was clear enough--Morton had listened to the clatter down there, imagining the rat to be some awful undead zombie, that had once been Quigley; and, when he could no longer hear it, he had phoned me. While rambling, finding no comfort in my rather angry response, he decided to end it once and for all.

The log with which he had battered down the door to the cellar still lay beside his body down there. he had rushed out into the

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THE COMET PAGE 11 --HORROR'S CELLAR-- desire to be sick seized me, and the room seemed to reel around. Groping for support, I leaned on the table, and chanced to notice again the typed sheets lying there. I need not burden this with a verbatim copying of them. It is easier to state that these pages, rambling though they were, were sufficient proof that Morton had, in a moment of unreasoning anger, killed a man--one Carl Quigley. Why, I know not, and probably never shall. But he had killed the man--and had thrown the body into that dark and awful cellar. If I were to copy these pages it would be clear to you what happened next. For a full thousand words--perhaps two thousand--Morton rambled on there,in black in white, about the scrapings he had heard after the crime, coming from the cellar. To one reading the pages it was clear how the thing had developed in his mind. A rat, probably, had gotten down there somehow; and had begun gnawing on an old timber each night when the house was still and dark. Morton's mind had magnified that--his consience had begun to trick him. He had, in his terror, driven heavy nails through the door the next morning, locked it, and thrown the only key to it away. That next night he had lain awake listening for it---and that night he thought the scrapings came nearer. They seemed to drag themselves up the steps each night--first it was one small thud, and then a louder one, as though something down there had crawled up one step and fallen back. The next night he had believed the process to be repeated---but this time there were two smaller thuds before the louder one! And the following night three---until he had begun to wonder how many steps there were to the door. It was pitiful. According to the typed confession of the murder, it had occurred two weeks previously. At first he tried to flee the house---but something held him there. Something he could not break free from, despite his every effort. About the fourth night he nailed shut the door; by the twelth he became irrational. Heaven alone knows what he did for food during that time--for from the message, he had not left the house. And on the fourteenth night he remembered that there were only fourteen steps; and the thing clambered to the thirteenth that night. All of the next day he had worked up his madness to an almost unendurable pitch; when the darkness fell, he was near raving, it was evident; at midnight his reason had snapped. That was as far as the manuscript went---but it was far enough. What had happened then was clear enough--Morton had listened to the clatter down there, imagining the rat to be some awful undead zombie, that had once been Quigley; and, when he could no longer hear it, he had phoned me. While rambling, finding no comfort in my rather angry response, he decided to end it once and for all. The log with which he had battered down the door to the cellar still lay beside his body down there. he had rushed out into the