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Fanfare, v. 1, issue 5, December 1940
Page 17
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FANFARE 17 SCARRED WRIST b y Donn Brazier A cold, late-summer rain beat at the grimy windows of the little railroad station. I walked across the small, shadowy room to a bench near the wall. A few insects darted around a single, dim light above the bench. I sat down, glad to be inside, out of the chilling rain. I was on my way home from a visit with a fantasy fiction friend of mine. I glanced at my watch -- 11:30. The village was asleep, and everything outside the station was incomplete darkness. I sat alone, huddled in my raincoat, listening to the dismal flapping and slapping of a sodden awning somewhere in the darkness. A cold draft circled the bare walls of the room. The atmosphere of the lonely station reminded me of my friend's story about the ghoul which the village people claimed haunted the graveyard. An interesting story, true, but just a village superstition. I took out the latest issue of STRANGE TALES and snuggled deeper into my coat, prepared to make the most of it until the midnight train arrived. Suddenly the door flew open. Gusts of wind blew cold rain into the room. Out of the rain stepped a man, a tall man in a dark, ragged coat. He stamped the water from his shoes, which I noticed were covered with muddy yellow clay. He removed his old, black hat and slapped it against his coat. He slammed the door shut and came toward me. "Hello," he said suddenly in a hollow voice. "Nasty night, isn't it? On a night like this, it's good to have someone to talk with." with that he sat down beside me. I said politely, if not wholeheartedly: "Yes, it is." I looked at him more closely. His clothes were frayed and old, and there was a peculiar, dank, musty odor to them. His face was pasty white, and protruding eye-teeth gave him a bestial appearance that I didn't like. He gestured toward my magazine. "Do you like that stuff?" Without waiting for an answer, he whispered secretively: "Have you heard about the ghoul who lives in the graveyard?" I nodded. "A friend told me." "I can tell you a lot more than he did," he laughed oddly. There was something in his eyes that made me uneasy. Small, greenish eyes, they were; and there was a glint of light swirling in them. In the background of my brain, I heard the rain at the window, the sudden flap of the awning, saw the single bulb burning above us, the darkness pressing in from the deserted streets. He spoke in his deep, tomb-like voice, "Listen-- "Some people say he is a common grave robber, an ordinary human being. That's not so. I know." He paused; his eyes bored into mine. I sat without saying a word, uneasy. "You've hears about ghouls . . . How does a man become one?" "Some curse, taint, bargain with the devil," I answered. "None of them are right." "How do you know?" I asked uneasily. An incredible thought entered my mind. I glanced at my watch nervously -- ten minutes yet... He smiled. "I know," he whispered. "I know none of them are right. A man becomes a ghoul if he takes his own life. That is the fact; simple, isn't it? Just take your own life, it doesn't matter how; a shot in the temple, poison, carbon monoxide, or just a quick slash of the wrist . . . " The cold draft died down and waited for something to happen. Fear began to pull at my ribs, tug at my backbone. What was there to be afraid of? Such a thing as I half imagined could not be!
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FANFARE 17 SCARRED WRIST b y Donn Brazier A cold, late-summer rain beat at the grimy windows of the little railroad station. I walked across the small, shadowy room to a bench near the wall. A few insects darted around a single, dim light above the bench. I sat down, glad to be inside, out of the chilling rain. I was on my way home from a visit with a fantasy fiction friend of mine. I glanced at my watch -- 11:30. The village was asleep, and everything outside the station was incomplete darkness. I sat alone, huddled in my raincoat, listening to the dismal flapping and slapping of a sodden awning somewhere in the darkness. A cold draft circled the bare walls of the room. The atmosphere of the lonely station reminded me of my friend's story about the ghoul which the village people claimed haunted the graveyard. An interesting story, true, but just a village superstition. I took out the latest issue of STRANGE TALES and snuggled deeper into my coat, prepared to make the most of it until the midnight train arrived. Suddenly the door flew open. Gusts of wind blew cold rain into the room. Out of the rain stepped a man, a tall man in a dark, ragged coat. He stamped the water from his shoes, which I noticed were covered with muddy yellow clay. He removed his old, black hat and slapped it against his coat. He slammed the door shut and came toward me. "Hello," he said suddenly in a hollow voice. "Nasty night, isn't it? On a night like this, it's good to have someone to talk with." with that he sat down beside me. I said politely, if not wholeheartedly: "Yes, it is." I looked at him more closely. His clothes were frayed and old, and there was a peculiar, dank, musty odor to them. His face was pasty white, and protruding eye-teeth gave him a bestial appearance that I didn't like. He gestured toward my magazine. "Do you like that stuff?" Without waiting for an answer, he whispered secretively: "Have you heard about the ghoul who lives in the graveyard?" I nodded. "A friend told me." "I can tell you a lot more than he did," he laughed oddly. There was something in his eyes that made me uneasy. Small, greenish eyes, they were; and there was a glint of light swirling in them. In the background of my brain, I heard the rain at the window, the sudden flap of the awning, saw the single bulb burning above us, the darkness pressing in from the deserted streets. He spoke in his deep, tomb-like voice, "Listen-- "Some people say he is a common grave robber, an ordinary human being. That's not so. I know." He paused; his eyes bored into mine. I sat without saying a word, uneasy. "You've hears about ghouls . . . How does a man become one?" "Some curse, taint, bargain with the devil," I answered. "None of them are right." "How do you know?" I asked uneasily. An incredible thought entered my mind. I glanced at my watch nervously -- ten minutes yet... He smiled. "I know," he whispered. "I know none of them are right. A man becomes a ghoul if he takes his own life. That is the fact; simple, isn't it? Just take your own life, it doesn't matter how; a shot in the temple, poison, carbon monoxide, or just a quick slash of the wrist . . . " The cold draft died down and waited for something to happen. Fear began to pull at my ribs, tug at my backbone. What was there to be afraid of? Such a thing as I half imagined could not be!
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