They Buried Her Body

by Gordon Philip England

Illustrated by Henry Sharp

Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, February 1948

Keith Edwards made a strange pact with an equally strange woman. Or was she a woman?...

FONDLE a bushmaster, and you will probably get bitten. Kick an atomic bomb, and you surely will be vaporized.

Keith Edwards neither pitched woo to the mamba nor played footer with the bomb. What he did do, though, was almost as unwise and rash. He answered the advertisement of a witch.

That ad, in the "Personal Column" of a writer's magazine to which Keith subscribed, arrested the young author's attention as he scanned the page. It intrigued. He read it a second time.

Wealthy, beautiful girl schooled in black magic and necromancy desires to contact young man (writer preferred) interested in extending knowledge of the occult. Promise thrills, fun and unforgettable experiences. Dare you write me? All replies confidential. Box 666, Writer's Treasure Chest.

Keith grinned as he read. "Schooled in black magic and necromancy my foot!” he scoffed. "Hell, she's probably never been within hailing distance of a witch doctor. More likely, she's just a bored, spoiled society dame looking for a new sensation. I know the type."

Keith tossed the magazine aside, sprang up, and began pacing the floor. He wasn't grinning now, an angry scowl was ploughing deep ruts across his high forehead. The curly auburn hair, usually well combed, was now rumpled and disordered. Blue circles around bloodshot gray eyes indicated several sleepless nights. No seventh son of a seventh son was needed to point out that the big, ordinarily husky-looking young fellow was undergoing a tremendous emotional upheavel and appeared on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Nine times out of ten, when a young man gets into such a state, some woman is to blame. This was one of the nine times. And the girl responsible for Keith's misery was his ex-fiancee, Sheila Brown.

All at once, making a sharp right wheel, Keith stopped to glare at the photograph on a mantel above the wide stone fireplace. To his fevered imagination, the eyes of the lovely platinum blonde held contemptuous amusement while a touch of mockery, curved the full, passionate lips. With a savage imprecation, he snatched the picture from its place of honor and ruthlessly tore it piecemeal. He hurled the dismembered fragments upon the bed of glowing embers in the fireplace. Yellow tongues of flame licked them greedily.

One of Sheila's eyes, which had fallen short of its mark, stared up accusingly from the stone hearth. Keith pounced upon it and fed it to the blaze.

“There," he said in gloomy satisfaction, “that settles you, my lovely ex-fiancee. In that last cold, heartless little note you told me I could keep that picture to remember you by. You expect me to waste my affection on your pictured likeness while you bask at Palm Beach in the arms of your elderly Lothario, eh? Well, if that's your idea, you little two-timer, better guess again. For I have other plans!”

SUDDENLY, Keith's thoughts returned to the advertisement. Again he studied it, this time more carefully. When he finished, his heart was kindling with excitement. Perhaps his snap analysis of the advertiser had been faulty. Possibly, after all, she was what she claimed to be a modern witch. If SO—

"Why, in that case," thought Keith, "she's just the gal I'm looking for. Be. fore I met Sheila I was deeply interested in black magic and the supernatural and only quit such research because of her attitude. She thought such things unholy and demon-inspired and refused to marry me unless I gave them up. She even mentioned them in that letter breaking our engagement, warning me not to return to such evil studies. Hell's bells! As if I'd take her advice now!"

Out of very perversity, because of a desire to disregard Sheila's wishes, Keith resolved to write the "witch." He sat down at his portable.

He banged out the final period, ripped the paper from the machine, and read what he had typed. Yes, it was exactly what he wanted.

"I'll take this down the lake to mail at once," he decided, as he put the letter into a stamped, addressed envelope. “The sooner it's off, the better."

Opening a door, Keith crossed a screened sleeping porch, pushed back a screen-door at its other end, and hurried down to the beach.

A rising wind moaned through tall pines behind the cottage. Above, an overcast sky reflected Keith's own black mood. Waves lashed savagely against the graveled shore, and whitecaps warned of a rough passage.

But Keith Edwards scorned the menace of the elements. He made his way to a narrow, wooden wharf where a trim little speedboat lay moored. Stepping in, he paddled out a short distance from the pier, then tried to start his outboard. At this third impatient yank on the pull-cord, it spun into vibrating action. With throttle open, he sped down the lake.

So rough was the water now that sometimes the propeller rose clear above the surface as waves jolted and rocked the motor-boat. Spray showered Keith as he crouched behind the motor with hand upon the steering rod. He ran in nearer shore, where the bucking of the waves was less pronounced, then continued on his course.

FLASHING past Birch Island, a white-beached, wooded islet half a mile from his camp, he noted as he drove by that the windows of the lone brown bungalow there still remained shuttered. Tom Davis, owner of the property, had told Keith that he had rented it for the summer to a New York woman. Spring had come late this year in Eastern Quebec, however, so some of the cottages might not be occupied before the First of June. Now, it was the middle of May.

Rounding Garrapy Point, Keith raced through the mile-long Narrows, where the lake thinned to half its average width. Here were no camps, only unbroken lines of forest. At the left, some distance inland, grim old Bear Mountain reared his rock-crowned head above the trees, while from the right grey Baldcap frowned down upon the passer-by. Glad to escape from the oppressive solitude of that lonely place, Keith moved on into the lower reaches of the lake. Ten minutes later he entered a partly landlocked bay with a row of tourist cabins buttoned along its farther shore. This was Simmonds' Landing.

Ahead, a dozen boats lay drawn up on the sloping beach. Shutting off his motor, Keith taxied in and beached his owo boat, pulled it well up on the sand. He passed the camps, crossed a road, and climbed a short, steep hill upon which stood a large, comfortable-looking brick house. Keith mounted stone steps leading to a wide veranda. At its upper end a woman lay, apparently asleep, in a couch hammock.

Keith walked quietly over, and stood gazing down at the sleeper. Decidedly easy on a man's eyes was Louise Simmonds, the vivacious young widow who ran the tourist camps. Masses of medium-brown hair framed a very pretty face . . . flirtatious black eyes, hidden now by long, dark lashes . . . velvetsmooth cheeks ... nicely shaped nose . . , finely chiseled chin—and tempting red lips. A delightfully feminine figure, not too plump and not too thin, with curves where curves ought to be. Age twenty-seven, two years older than Keith. The death of her much older husband the summer before had left Louise free, with a comfortable income. Many men had found her irresistible, but she had never succeeded in greatly impressing Keith. That fact had piqued her interest in the young writer.

Louise opened her eyes and looked up.

"Did I wake you?” asked Keith coolly. "Sorry."

Louise smiled.

"Hello, Hermit ... Oh, I wasn't really asleep, just in a brown study, and you came up so silently I didn't hear you. Say, you must be crazy, coming down on an afternoon like this! Don't you know there's a storm brewing? It'll catch you before you get back."

Keith registered indifference. "If it does I'll weather it. Any mail?”

She shook her head. "Not even a post card. Guess your girl friend's forgetting you, Hermit. She used to be regular."

Keith flushed. Rage tore again at his heart strings.

“That's finished," he said. "But definitely. And listen, stop calling me Hermit. I'm no monk!"

She raised quizzical eyebrows.

"No? Well, I'm not so sure. Living all by yourself in that swell big camp up there! Most men would want company."

HER words and tone were provocative. Many young men would have eagerly accepted the thinly veiled invitation, but Keith refused to rise to the bait.

"Well," he drawled, “perhaps I'll have some myself before the summer's over. Rather special company."

Louise looked at him with new, jealous interest. For the first time she noticed the change in him. The blue circles around his eyes, the lines of worry in his forehead—and his reckless expression

"Something's hit him,” she told herself—"and hit mighty hard. Easy to see that."

Aloud she laughed, “I'll believe that when I see it, Hermit. But, all kidding aside, that storm's liable to be a terror. Better stay down tonight. I can give you a cabin if you're afraid to stay with me at the house."

But he shook his head. “Thanks a lot, but I don't mind a wetting. Besides, I have some work to do this evening. Before I go, though, there's something else. Will you mail this for me, Louise? It's rather important."

The widow nodded. "Oh sure, Hermit. I'll give it to the mailman in the morning. Anything else?"

"No," replied Keith, "that's all."

Turning away, he went back to his motor-boat. Louise Simmonds watched him put out into the bay and pull the starting cord. The engine leapt into life, and the boat dashed up the lake.

"Whew!" whistled the watcher, as the craft disappeared around a bend, "he's running her wide open. Speed's that boy's first name today!"

Louise glanced curiously at the letter entrusted to her. The address told her little.

"I wonder what this is?" she thought. "It must have been something pretty urgent to have brought him down in such weather, Oh well, it's really none of my business. If I were like some women I'd steam the letter open and satisfy my curiosity before sending it along. But I promised to mail it safely, and I will."

CHAPTER II

ON A sunny afternoon a few days later, a young woman lay on the beach at Los Angeles beneath a yellow umbrella. Stretched face downwards on a large terry cloth beach blanket, she was reading a black leather covered book. Glancing over her shoulder, one might have been startled to find that it was not one of the currently popular over-length novels but a graphic and extensive survey of Black Magic. Some of its contents were revoltingly gruesome, so much so that they would have shocked or sickened many, but those passages seemed merely to bore the present reader. To her the book appeared commonplace.

“What dull stuff," she thought. "Like most writers about such matters, the man knows little. He has barely scratched the surface. Someday, I think I'll write a book myself—an autobiography of my own occult experiences. But, if I did, who would dare print it?"

The girl yawned, put the book aside, then drew from her handbag a sheaf of unopened letters held together with a rubber band. She slit open the first with a pearl handled paper knife and unfolded the enclosure.

She read only a few lines, then tossed the letter aside contemptuously. Opening other letters, she treated them similarly. Finally only one letter remained --the one from Keith Edwards.

The girl read a few words carelessly, then her attention focused. Violet eyes riveted upon the typed sheet. The eyes lit with excitement.

“This is it," thought the girl exultantly. "Here is the man I've been looking for."

She finished reading Keith's letter, then lay back with eyes closed, the envelope held lightly between long, beautifully manicured fingers. She stretched lazily like a great cat, then relaxed in thought. He lovely body, tanned a golden brown and nude save for a very abbreviated white silk bathing suit, was still, but in her wild, restless mind was an erupting volcano. For this woman lived for one thing only— exciting adventure. Daughter of a British general and a Russian ballet dancer, Irma Dane's career had been, to put it mildly, unusual. When only six, she had been kidnapped by an East Indian yogi who had harbored a grudge against her soldier father, and during the four years which had elapsed before her rescue, the precocious child had assimilated an almost amazing fund of knowledge concerning mesmerism, clairvoyance and magic.

TWO years later, General Dane had succumbed to snake bite, and the following June his widow had married an Irish soldier of fortune, Captain Desmond, then, together with the child, had accompanied him to South America, where he had taken part in two revolutions. In the second the rebel forces had been victorious, and the new president had shown proper appreciation of the Irishman's military services by creating him Minister of War. He had also enriched him with valuable mining shares, so at the time of Desmond's death by an assassin's bullet five years afterwards he was very wealthly. Leaving South America, mother and daughter had gone to live in Hollywood. The former ballet dancer had played minor roles in film productions, then had died of flu, and Irma had become mistress of a large fortune.

From then on the girl's life had been hectic. She had traveled the wide world over, enlarging her already vast store of psychic knowledge by contact with astrologers, witch doctors and magicians.

Nor had Irma confined her studies to the occult. She had a good understanding of art, music and literature. And -on the side—she had had numerous love affairs.

The first of the latter, at the early age of thirteen, had been with a Chilean gentleman, a guest of her stepfather. After that, there had been others. Not that Irma had ever made herself cheap or common, for she was fastidious. But like Kipling's soldier, she had had her "picking of sweethearts and some of them had been prime.” Now at the present moment, however, she felt bored and dissatisfied. Her present male companions seemed too sophisticated, too civilized. Irma was tired of them all. She wanted someone fresh and clean. A young man of imagination, who would be a willing pupil, and who might also prove an exciting lover.

And now, thanks to her advertisement in The Treasure Chest, she had found her man.

Irma laughed delightedly. “This letter is witty, imaginative and amusing,” she told herself. . . . "I think this summer may not prove so dull, after all."

So the witch went home and wrote a letter. Still smiling, she affixed an air mail stamp and sent it winging East.

THREE nights later, Keith Edwards, who had beaten the predicted storm on his homeward trip by the narrowest of margins, came down again for his mail. Louise handed him Irma Dane's reply. Her glance followed it curiously.

"Well, Hermit,” she mocked, "you are coming along. A Los Angeles letter with a Hollywood return address. And in a woman's handwriting, too. Trying to date a star?”

“You'd be surprised,” smiled Keith, slipping the envelope into his pocket. "Didn't I tell you I might have company before long?"

Louise laughed shortly. "Yes? Well, who is she? Don't keep me in suspense!”

Outwardly indifferent, inwardly she was thinking, "I must be slipping. Something's screwy somewhere when a man goes looking for romance way across the continent when I'm right here ready and willing. What's a star got that I haven't?”

While Keith thought, “Not a bad looker, this Simmonds dame. Lots of men would fall hard for her. But not me. She's not so bad, maybe, but I'm fastidious. I want to find a woman who can make me forget Sheila. To do that, she must be extra-special, though."

"He doesn't even see me," the merry widow told herself bitterly. "I'll bet my ankles are as nicely curved as this Hollywood girl's, and that my complexion is just as good, too. Oh, why is the Hermit so blind? To tell the truth, I'm getting to be nuts about that guy. He's got what it takes. Oh, but what's the use? He's looking right through me as if I didn't exist."

Keith was. He could not see the glamorous, seductive young widow who so craved his attention. He was looking beyond her, visualizing the more sophisticated girl thousands of miles away. .

While out in sunny California Irma was thinking, "He should have my letter by now. Will he reply soon, or will my frankness frighten him away? Perhaps I was foolish to have written so at first and should have worked up to things more gradually. But I wrote as I felt, and, if he's the man I take him for, he won't mind my unconventionality ... Anyhow, we shall see."

BACK on the lake, Keith stopped his motor and let the boat drift while he read the letter. Dear Writer from Quebec:

Your response to my ad charms me. It stimulates my interest. ... A summer in your lovely Eastern Quebec lake country sounds divine.

You are rather particular, aren't you? However, I'm glad, as I'm pretty exacting, too, when it comes to male companions.... I think I fill all your requirements, Keith.

Certainly I'm sophisticated, human and oh, how adventurous! Beautiful? Well, judge for your self by the enclosed rather revealing snapshot....

No, of course I'm not kidding about being a sorceress. Not that I ride through the air on a broomstick; I usually travel by plane. But I've hobnobbed with Indian medicine men, witch doctors of Haiti and Africa, Tibetan monks —and even devil worshipers of Khurdistan, I've witnessed unholy rites that would make your blood congeal and have--but why go on? In short, if you're in earnest about wanting to continue your studies of the occult, why, I'm the gal that can teach you. I'm young yet—in years only 23—but I've had worlds of experience.

Well, that's Irma Dane. Now, about yourself? More details, please, not too scrappy. And more about your wilderness surroundings, too. Exactly what can you offer a bored, restless, adventure hunting modern sorceress in exchange for her tutoring and companionship this summer? Reply by air.

Expectantly,

Irma Dane Keith gazed long and hard at the snapshot. It left little to the imagination, but that little tantalized. The picture set the young writer's heart racing madly. Studying the black art under such an instructress would be more than thrilling.

Could Louise Simmonds have seen the look in Keith's eyes she would have gnashed her teeth. Nor would an impartial judge have wondered at Keith's reaction. For the sophisticate of Hollywood was indeed something extra-special. Dark hair and violet eyes … beautiful hands (Keith always judged a woman by her hands) which showed the mark of centuries of high breeding ... symmetrically curved hips and exquisitively turned ankles. ... That was Irma Dane.

"She's unbelievable,” thought Keith excitedly. "Sheila was pretty, but this girl is the kind one dreams of but never sees. I'll write back immediately."

He feasted his gaze on the witch's picture for some minutes longer, then replaced it in the envelope, which he returned to his pocket. Then he started his motor again.

At his camp he wrote a long letter, describing the country in considerable detail. Then, in a burst of honesty, he poured out his heart to his new correspondent. He told her of Sheila, of his former studies regarding the supernatural and his willingness to resume them—and of his need for an understanding girl companion to cure him of his hurt. "Such an understanding woman as yourself," he wrote, "who will be my guide and teacher. In return, I'll place myself wholly at your disposal for the summer. Come be my companion, Irma Dane, and I'll be an ardent, willing pupil. I know this district well, every nook and corner, and I'll take you off the beaten tourist tracks into a savagely beautiful wilderness. And then, in Autumn when nights grow colder and frosts are crimsoning the leaves, we'll say goodbye and never afterwards (unless at your own request) shall I try to re-enter your life. That's a fair offer, I think. Come, is it a bargain?"

CHAPTER III

A BARGAIN it soon became. From Hollywood Irma wrote: Thank you for your frankness. I admire honesty. As for your own picture, why, you're marvelous, darling ...I thrill with anticipation ... And I adore beautiful scenery The places you mention and describe sound almost breath-takingly lovely. I can hardly wait to see them—and you. I can't come just yet, though, not until the middle of July. Will that do?

Irma P.S. I warn you that I shall hold you to your promises and shall expect your undivided attention. You will need strong nerves, too, in order to perform some of the tasks I have mapped out for you. Does the prospect frighten you? Hope not, darling.

With their mutual agreement, the pact was made between the witch and Keith Edwards, then letters began to fly back and forth. All religious inhibitions and prickings of conscience disregarded, Keith abandoned himself to the pursuit of forbidden knowledge under the tutorship of his enchantress. For his purpose he could scarcely have chosen a better teacher. Irma was indeed a sophisticated cosmopolite. Her teachings were almost entirely pagan, frankly unconventional, and thoroughly fascinating.

Irma's frankness at first somewhat shocked the young neophyte, for he had been brought up in a Puritan household. Soon, however, as he grew more accustomed to Irma's point of view, he adapted himself to her way of thinking and found the lessons fascinating and enjoyable.

Those lessons embraced numerous subjects. Telepathy, necromancy, devil worship, astralization of all these and more Irma possessed astounding knowledge.

"Two years ago," recorded the sorceress, “I made a yachting trip to the voodoo land of Haiti. My companion was a student of the occult and also was a friend of a powerful witch doctor there. The latter took a fancy to me, declared that I had unusual psychic powers, and taught me unholy and horrible secrets which I dare not reveal here. ... The study of black art is surely fascinating, though, and could be dangerous in the hands of an unscrupulous woman like myself. So let me warn you, darling, that I have an extremely jealous nature, and if during our stay together I ever catch you roaming other woman-wards, something very terrible will be liable to happen to the girl and to yourself.... How would you like, my Keith, to be seized with cramps or paralyzed from the neck down? To be—but why continue? I'm sure you'll be too wise to provoke my wrath, darling. You'd better be!”

BY NOW Keith was beginning to realize that he had let himself in for much more than he had intended. In his saner moments he cursed himself for his reckless bargain and was almost ready to call the whole thing off. But it seemed as if his thought must have carried to Irma, for in her next letter she accused him of half heartedness and threatened dire consequences if he tried to break their agreement. "I haven't changed all my summer plans," she declared, and spent hours writing letters of instruction, to have you run out on me now. You will go through with everything as agreed or else. And I mean OR ELSE!”

That threat angered Keith and aroused his combative spirit. “No woman can order me around," he told himself indignantly, "and in the morning I'll send a letter telling her sol” That evening he composed a heated declaration of independence, then went to bed satisfied. But in the morning he awoke shaking with chills from head to foot while excruciating pains racked his neck and shoulders. For two days he was too weak to leave the camp. On the morning of the third day, obsessed with the belief that Irma was somehow responsible for his condition, he burned the letter. When, soon afterwards, his pains suddenly ceased and strength returned, he felt properly awed and resolved never again to incur the displeasure of the enchantress.

Once her subject had returned to his allegiance, Irma relaxed from her menacing attitude. Alluringly she pictured the delights of illicit lore-of enthrallingly exciting pleasures in store for her pupil. She scented her letters now with a strange, subtly exotic perfume which she called "Perfume of Desire"--a rare, costly product of the Orient. Louise Simmonds sniffed at one such perfumed envelope, and her black eyes smoldered.

"This Hollywood siren's got the Hermit going in circles," she thought with conviction, "and she's not doing him any good, either. I'm no angel, but I'd be better for the boy than that California attraction. I don't know her, of course, but just one whiff of that perfume's enough. The Old Nick himself must have made it!”

When she gave Keith the letter, Louise challenged, "I thought you told me you'd be having company, Hermit? She doesn't seem to get here very fast. Were you just bragging, or are you really expecting someone?"

Keith's smile was tantalizing. "Wait and see," he answered. Then, on a sudden impulse, he pulled out his billfold. He flicked it open and pointed to a snapshot.

“There!” he exclaimed. “What do you think of her?"

LOUISE gasped. Her gaze fastened upon the picture. She had never seen anything quite like it. In the center of a patch of white sand with a background of foam-capped waves breaking upon a reef, Irma lay on a blanket beneath an umbrella. At one side was a pair of sun glasses, and behind her, beach sandals. A flimsy, provocative bathing suit failed to conceal the exquisite contours of her lovely figure.

“My God!”

Almost never did Louise indulge in profanity. The fact that she did now revealed the depth of her emotion.

"So that's her, Hermit!”

"That's the lady." Keith snapped the billfold shut and replaced it in his pocket. “Well?”

Louise faced him. "You fool!" she blazed. “You're getting beyond your depth. That dame's not your style, Hermit. I'm no prophetess, but I can tell you this, big boy. Play around with that piece of dynamite and you'll get burnt. And I don't mean just scorched!”

"Oh yeah?” said Keith, pleased with the effect created by the picture. "Well, we shall see. Meanwhile, as I've told you so much, I may as well let you know the rest. My girl friend has promised to give me a long-distance ring tonight-and that's not all, either. She's coming the middle of July. What do you think of that?”

The merry widow stared, then, realizing he was in earnest, her eyes flashed. "You fool!" she screamed again. "Oh, you fool!”

And then, to Keith's amazement, she turned and rushed into the house, slamming the door.

Keith gazed after her, astounded and not a little disturbed. Never before had he seen Louise lose control of herself, and he wondered uneasily what would be the result when she and Irma met face to face? The thought held unpleasant possibilities.

Later, however, when his call came, he forgot Louise. For Irma's voice, like her letters, enchanted him. Beautifully modulated, yet with an under note of throbbing passion beneath its cool sophistication, it stirred hidden depths in his mind and heart.

"Nice to hear your voice, darling," said Irma. . . . It's just as I've imagined it. . . . No, it won't be a long wait now. I'm taking that plane trip over the Grand Canyon next Thursday, then when I get back I'll head straight for you, Keith. Until then, au revoir."

A LETTER received next day revealed Irma in one of her most whimsical and appealing moods. "I've always believed in fairies, darling," she wrote. "Some night, I shall wander out of our camp into the forest to look for them in the moonlight. And, if I find them, I may go away with them forever. But, if I don't, well, Keith, I shall come back disappointed-and you'll have to comfort me all the rest of the night!”

And then, two days later, came a strange letter. "Darling," said Irma, "I have told you I'm psychic. And all day I've had forebodings. It's no idle fancy, I think . . . something is going to happen. But, listen, Keith, if it does, don't let it worry you. I promise you that whatever occurs, I will keep our rendezvous. Whatever happens, darling. So, don't try putting anyone in my place, or I shall be very angry.

"I can see our camp. Because of your pictures of it, and your vivid descriptions, I can see it all clearly. I can take a bird's-eye view of the whole lake ... of Birch Island with its small brown bungalow . . . the Narrows beyond, and Simmonds' Landing ...I can see you, too, Keith, waiting for me. And you won't have to wait in vain.

"Well, tomorrow I leave on the plane trip. And then, when I return, I shall go to meet you, Irma"

THAT letter troubled Keith Edwards. Worried him all the rest of that day and into the evening. He had never thought himself unduly superstitious, but now a premonition of impending disaster oppressed him. He fell asleep thinking about it.

And while he slept he had a frightful dream. A dream or a vision. For it seemed no mere dream; it was too horribly real.

He saw a great plane racing through the sky, and with X-ray eyes he looked through it into the passenger section. Seated there, talking with a stewardess, he saw Irma. He watched the girl pass on, saw Irma lean back and close her eyes. Then, when she opened them again,- she looked straight ahead. He knew that across the miles she was looking at him. Her lips moved, as if trying to word a message. And then, clear as morning bell, he heard her voice:

"Don't forget what I told you, Keith. I'll be there!"

The scene within the plane faded out. Again Keith saw the air liner flash on through the sky. He say it approaching snow-clad peaks . . . heard the engines skipping . . . saw the ship nose down. He knew momentary relief as it partly righted, then groaned as it plunged towards the side of the nearest mountain. Then came a terrific impact and an awful explosion.

Keith sprang from his bed. He stood in darkness, eyes wide and staring, heart pumping madly. The shock of the explosion had awakened him. But, had it been only a dream?

The young author tried to believe that it had been nothing worse. "I went to sleep worrying about that plane flight Irma was taking," he remembered. "The thought brought on the nightmare. That was all."

But he could not convince himself that it was all. The dream had been too real for that. That message from Irma had been too clear,

Keith laughed shakily. “I must be getting jittery," he told himself, "to let a dream affect me so. I'll just forget the whole silly business."

He got back into bed and tried to shut out the remembrance, but could not. Finally, in an effort to distract his attention from the nightmare, he switched on his portable radio. A few bars of music then a dramatic announcement:

"We interrupt this program for a news flash . . . A large air liner from Los Angeles has crashed in the mountains. Residents in the valley below heard the explosion. It will take rescue parties several hours to reach the scene of the wreck, and it is feared that few, if any, of the twenty persons aboard can have survived. Among the passengers was Miss Irma Dane, the lovely Los Angeles long-distance swimmer and world traveler, whose series of articles in a nationally known magazine last year on "The World Beyond' created such a furore ... Others believed to have been involved in the tragedy were ..."

CHAPTER IV

THEY buried the charred, unrecognizable body of Irma Dane in a common grave with other plane crash victims.

Keith heard all the lurid details on his radio. He listened like a man dazed. Even now he could scarcely realize the shocking truth. Re-reading Irma's letters, it seemed to him inconceivable that a being so electrically charged with life and passion could so soon have become a lifeless, blackened thing.

Nor did the fact of his regained freedom bring relief. Irma's passing filled him with an unutterable sense of loss. For weeks her fascinating personality had influenced Keith's actions; her letters had reached out to draw him closer to her, and her voice, clear and vibrant over the telephone, had sent flames of passion leaping through his veins. He had so looked forward to her coming!

Now, he thought dully, all that was forever ended. Irma Dane was dead. Now they would never meet.

As for her message, already it seemed meaningless. Irma had promised to keep her rendezvous, but Death cancelled all such pledges. You don't keep rendezvous with the buried dead.

Keith did not go down the lake again for several days. When he did go, he noticed, as he passed Birch Island, that the brown bungalow (which had remained unoccupied since last autumn) was no longer vacant. A beautiful red-headed girl stood above the landing, and beside her was an older woman in a nurse's uniform

Even in his anguish of soul Keith realized how very attractive the girl was, and he wondered at the presence of the nurse. Certainly, the red-head did not look ill; she appeared the picture of glowing health. But perhaps someone was sick inside the cottage?

Keith sped on down the lake to Simmonds' Landing. He found Louise awaiting him.

SHE, too, had heard the news. Inwardly jubilant, the merry widow cleverly concealed her satisfaction. She had hated Irma Dane in life, and now she felt relief because of her death. But she greeted Keith with expressions of sympathy.

“You poor boy!" she exclaimed. “I'm sorry I spoke as I did about your friend, Hermit. I heard it all on the radio. You must feel terribly, Keith."

"I do," replied Keith bitterly. "I feel as if something vital has gone out of my life. I can't put it into words, Louise. It's too deep."

Louise nodded. “Sure," she agreed, “I know. Yes, it was horrible, all right. But, don't let it get you down, Hermit. You're young and successful, with most of life ahead. Brace up, now. Show you can take it."

He did not answer, but stared gloomily at the ground. She stepped forward, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Hermit," she whispered, "you're lonely. You shouldn't stay at that big camp all by yourself. You need companionship. You need a woman."

Keith looked at her then. For the first time he really felt her appeal. She was right, too. He did need feminine companionship. Louise wasn't Irma, of course, but still she was a woman —and very lovely.

"Perhaps you're right," he said. "Yes, I do need someone . . . It's nice of you to understand."

Deliberately, she put her arms around his neck. Soft, hot lips clung to his. “I've always wanted to do this, Hermit," she whispered . . . "Listen, tonight, when everyone's asleep, I'm going up to visit you. I'll come in my canoe."

She waited, expectant, for his answer. It was slow in coming. Even while he held Louise in his arms, he was remembering that last message of the dead witch. “Don't forget what I told you, darling. I'll be there."

Impatiently, Keith shook off the thought. "Words, just meaningless words,” he assured himself. "Can the dead keep rendezvous? Can the dead return?”

“Well,” the widow's lips were close to his ear, "how about it, Hermit? Is it a date?”

He kissed her then. "I'll be expecting you," he said.

HALFWAY back up the lake, Keith stopped to talk with Tom Davis, who was out fishing. “I see there's someone in the island bungalow at last, Tom," he said. “I caught a glimpse of them as I came by."

Davis nodded. "Yes, the woman from New York couldn't come herself, so she sub-let to friends from the Pacific Coast who are visiting these parts this summer. There are three of them: Mrs. Hudson, her daughter Lorraine, and the girl's nurse, Edith Blackburn."

The girl's nurse?" repeated Keith, surprised. “You mean the mother's, don't you, Tom? That pretty red-head that I saw didn't look sick."

Davis hesitated. “Well, perhaps I ought not to tell you, Keith,” he replied at length, "for the nurse warned me to keep it under my hat. But, this Lorraine's a sure enough beauty, and you might think of getting friendly with her, so I guess I'd better give you the lowdown on her, son. The girl's not normal.”

Keith looked startled. “You mean she's feeble-minded?” he asked incredulously. “She doesn't look it.”

Davis shook his head. "Oh no, she's as bright as a new-minted coin. According to the nurse, though, she's sort of afflicted. Takes and has fits.”

“Fits?"

“Uh-huh, Not epileptic, the kind where they froth at the mouth and go into convulsions, but the other sort. Cataleptic, I guess the word it. Yes, that's it, cataleptic. The nurse says this Hudson girl stiffens out like she was dead and lies in a sort of trance for hours on end. Then she comes back to herself and remembers nothing about it."

"Oh, I see," said Keith. "Well, thanks for the tip, Tom. I certainly wouldn't want to take out anyone like that. She's liable to pass out on me and make things embarrassing."

KEITH cast a curious glance at the island as he went past. No one was visible. The nurse was bending over her. The lovely red-head was completely motionless, showing no sign of life. Edith Blackburn shook her head sadly.

"It's uncanny," thought the attendant. “I can't understand it. The girl's body is here before me, but that's all. It's as if her soul has departed.”

The nurse shook her head again. then turned softly away. She went on to the next bedroom, where Mrs. Hudson sat crying bitterly.

Unaware of what was happening in the cottage, Keith Edwards continued on to his lonely camp. He prepared for the coming of his self-invited guest.

That night, he went out on the porch and looked at moon and stars. He listened to the lap of little waves upon the beach. It was a lovely night, softly warm and fragrant with the scent of the pines. A wonderful night. A night such as he and Irma had often dreamed of.

Irma! Ah, there was that name to again mock him. Irma Dane was dead. He must forget her. This was the Fifteenth of July. Tonight the sorceress was to have been there, but tonight she lay in her grave three thousand miles away. And tonight he was meeting Louise.

Keith sighed and looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock,

"She'll be coming now," he thought. "Soon, she will be here."

Down the lake, a light canoe containing one person glided swiftly across the water. The merry widow, kneeling in its bottom, dipped her paddle deep and sent the frail craft forward at a still faster clip. Very beautiful was Louise, as she knelt there in the soft moonlight. She had on only a green swim suit, and her bare arms and shoulders gleamed whitely in the starlight. Her face was radiant.

She spoke her thoughts aloud, addressing her dead rival:

“The Hermit is mine now. It is I who will possess him, not you, Irma Dane. You will never have him now, for you are dead!"

The widow's loud, exultant laugh rang out across the water. And she drove jubilantly on into the Narrows.

CHAPTER V

IN THE brown bungalow on Birch Island the nurse lay asleep on a couch, Across the room, on a bed, Lorraine Hudson was still in that cataleptic trance.

All at once there came a change. Lorraine stirred, moved restlessly. Her eyes opened. She smiled.

Because the night was warm, she was covered by only one thin sheet and blanket. Throwing these back, she slipped her feet to the floor, and stood -up. In an instant she had stripped away her sleeping pajamas, which fell in a crumpled heap at her feet. With another swift, catlike movement she caught up a white satin bathing suit from off a chair and pulled it on. Raising her arms above her head, she stretched in another cat-like gesture. Then she laughed, softly and almost soundlessly.

The oil lamp, turned low, threw a dim shadow across the face of the sleeping nurse. Stepping lightly to the couch, Lorraine bent over Edith Blackburn and whispered strange words, as if to bind the woman under a spell, out of its door, and down to the boat landing. She stood a moment lovely in the night light, then dove cleanly into the lake.

She came up several yards away, and swam down into the Narrows. Straight into the path of the oncoming canoe!

Louise, paddling along, heard a splash in the water. Glancing aside, she saw the approaching swimmer.

"Watch out!" she screamed. "You'll upset me!"

The swimmer laughed a fierce, triumphant laugh.

"Go back, girl! Keith Edwards is mine. You cannot have him!”

Louise stopped paddling, stared.

"Who are you? But, it doesn't matter, whoever you are. The Hermit wants me. I am going to him."

Again the swimmer laughed. She was very near now.

"I am she whom you called dead. I am Irma Dane."

"You can't be!" shrieked Louise. "Irma Dane is dead. She died in a plane crash!"

But the swimmer's voice rang out like a victory bell: “My body died, but not my soul. And tonight I keep rendezvous with Keith. Back, foolish girl, before I get really angry."

But the widow did not turn back. A mad frenzy gripped her.

Raising her paddle, she aimed a vicious blow at the swimmer's head.

Driven with the force of hate, had that blow landed it would have split the swimmer's skull. But it did not land. The intended victim ducked, and the paddle blade cut the water harmlessly.

A CRY of anger broke from the girl in the water. Hurling herself up ward and forward in a pantherish spring, she capsized the canoe.

A good swimmer herself, Louise Simmonds might even then have reached shore safely, but did not try. Temporarily insane with baffled desire and murderous fury, she threw herself savagely upon her rival, striving to drag her under.

The girl who called herself Irma Dane fought back like an enraged tigress. Clawing at each other like jungle cats, the two pulled hair, slapped, and kicked. Then, at close quarters, they locked in a deadly embrace, wild with the lust to kill.

Still fighting furiously, the rivals disappeared beneath the surface ... Moments passed, then a head bobbed above the water—but only one.

For a few moments the victor floated upon the surface, recovering breath, then, turning from that fatal spot, swam swiftly, quietly up the lake.

On the wharf waited Keith Edwards. He heard a faint splash, then saw the head and shoulders of a woman as she swam alongside. “Is that you, Louise?" he said.

The girl drew herself from the water, upon the pier, and came to him. “No, faithless one," she said, “it is not Louise. This was not her rendezvous but ours."

Keith started. He felt, strangely enough, no fear, Only a great wonder.

"Ours? you mean ?"

"I mean that I have come to keep my promise. Death itself could not stop me."

And in amazed joy Keith knew that it was true.

Still marveling, he put out a finger and touched her cheek. He thrilled to the contact. No dead woman this, but a fully alive one, passionate and expectant.

He put his arm around her. She wound soft, strong arms about his neck and drew him close.

“Keith," she whispered. "Keith!”

Her lips were on his now, bruising them into submission.

"Irma! Is it really you, Irma?"

She gave a low laugh. "Of course, darling. They buried my body, but not the real Irma Dane. You can't kill the soul, Keith. Tonight I am here, in another body. The body of the girl on Birch Island—the one who has the cataleptic fits. I had known her in California, was aware of her affliction, and had learned she was coming to stay at the bungalow. Tonight, while her spirit was away, astralized, mine slipped into its place. . . . So—I am here."

Her tone grew impatient: “But, enough talk. Have I flown more than halfway across the continent for talk alone? I have much to teach you, my pupil—things exciting, thrilling. Come Keith.”

She slipped a hand in his. Together, they went into the cottage....

IN THE morning Keith awoke. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “I've been dreaming again," he thought. "But what? I remember going down to the wharf to meet Louise, but that is all. The rest is hazy."

Later that afternoon, as he started down the lake, he overtook Tom Davis, in another motor-boat.

Davis hailed him: "Hello, Keith. Terrible business about Louise Simmonds, isn't it?"

Keith stared at him. "Louise Simmonds? What do you mean, Tom?"

“What? You haven't heard, then? They found her overturned canoe drifting in the Narrows. They're getting ready to drag now."

Keith felt sick at heart. "So, that's why she didn't come last night," he thought. “Poor Louise."

With others, he assisted in the grim search. Grapples failed to locate the body that day, however, for it lay tangled deep in the weeds.

That night, as it neared the stroke of midnight, Keith rose from uneasy sleep and found himself walking down to the wharf. A girl swimmer, appearing in the moonlight, drew herself up the side of his boat, and stepped out of it into his arms. She kissed him with a hundred strange kisses, whispered unspeakable words in his ears—and Time stood still . . . And, the following morning, as on the preceding one, he tried to recall what he thought was a dream. But tried in vain, for by the will of the witch, his teacher, he remembered nothing.

Days later, they found and fished Louise Simmonds' body from its watery resting-place at the bottom of the Narrows. Keith glanced once at the swollen, unlovely features of the once beautiful, vivacious merry widow, then turned shudderingly away. He had never loved Louise, yet she had cared for him...

But that night, as on several nights preceding it, he completely forgot her in the company of the strange girl who called herself Irma Dane but who outwardly was Lorraine Hudson.

Night followed night until at length a crisp autumn frost crimsoned the leaves and sent them rustling to carpet the ground. Then it was, early in October, that Irma said: “You've been wonderful, Keith-the very nicest pupil I've ever had. But now our summer is over. Yet I almost hate to leave you; I've grown so fond of you. Still, a promise is a promise, and I shall keep our bargain."

THEY were standing on the wharf below the camp when she said that. Keith's voice was a wail of protest:

"You are going away? You are giving Lorraine back her body?”

Irma shrugged. "No, why should I? I told you once, darling, that I'm a most unscrupulous woman. I have the girl's body now, and I like it. Possession is nine tenths of the law, isn't it? Besides, you needn't worry about Lorraine. She was in love with a curly haired young air lieutenant who died over Tokyo, and she always mourned for him. Now, the two are back together again, happy as larks."

"I wasn't thinking of Lorraine Hudson," said Keith, "but about ourselves. Can you leave me now?"

A look of tenderness came in her eyes. "Well, I meant to kiss and say good-bye, darling, but neither of us seems to want that. Yet, although I like you so much now, I might tire of you if I remained with you always. Or, you might tire of me. I can't risk that. If you wish, though, I'll make another agreement. For eleven months each year I'll leave you free. Go with whom you like, love whom you like; yes, even marry if you want to. But never, no never, bring any woman, wife or light-of-love, to this camp. This place must remain sacred to us alone. If you disregard my wish, you will lose me.

"But," and the seductive voice softened to a caress as the girl leaned closer, "if you do what I ask, then every year from the middle of July until the Fifteenth of August I'll keep rendezvous with you here. And each year I will teach you new, wonderful secrets which I have learned during my wanderings through Time, and I will love you as no man ever was loved before. . . . Now, I must really go...."

She bent and kissed him long and lingeringly upon the lips, then, with a gay wave of her hand, she slipped down the side of the wharf into the water, while he stood silently by, disturbed and watching.

For a long time Keith remained there, gazing after her, then he turned and went back into the camp.

IN THE morning he awoke, and unlike on other mornings after the girl's visits, it was with memory clear as a bell. Every incident connected with those marvelous nights was etched upon his mind, every lesson deeply engraved there.

Upon a table in his room he found a beautifully tooled new billfold. He opened it. In its photograph section was a tinted snapshot of Irma Dane, but the lock of hair enclosed with the witch's gift was red.

Keith hurried to his speed boat, and headed down the lake. Before he had gone far, he met Tom Davis.

"Well, Keith,” remarked the older man, "it's been an exciting summer. But it's over with now. The last of my tenants, that party on the island, pulled out early this morning. But they're coming back again next year."

Davis tugged thoughtfully at his sandy mustache. "I guess," he added, "the holiday here did that girl Lorraine a heap of good. She hasn't had a fit since the middle of July, Edith Blackburn said. Fact is, she seems a different girl altogether,"

"By the way, Tom," Keith tried to make the question casual, "was that Hudson girl a good swimmer?”

Davis' answer removed Keith's last shadow of doubt.

"Swimmer? Why, no, son, the nurse could swim a little, a few yards, maybe. But that Lorraine girl, she couldn't swim a stroke.”

ENVIOUS members of the writing craft sometimes whisper dark suspicions about Keith Edwards. They declare that, like Faust, he must have an unholy pact with Satan.

Such assertions might appear ridiculous and fantastic were it not for certain facts which the writers marshal to back their opinion. In brief, here is a summary of that circumstantial evidence. Suddenly, after several years of mediocre success, Keith soared to stratospheric heights of literary glory. Now, as an author of tales of the weird and supernatural, he reigns supreme. Moreover, while other fictionists rove the wide world over in search for new, startling data regarding matters pertaining to the occult, he, spending most of his time in North America, seems always to have access to an amazing store of knowledge denied to themselves. Unless instructed by the Fiend, how can he learn so much?

One fact juts out prominently. No matter how busy he may be, Keith takes a one month's holiday every summer. That holiday invariably begins the middle of July. He spends his vacation at his camp on a beautiful little lake somewhere in Eastern Quebec, and when he returns, his typewriter, humming with inspiration, pours forth those inimitable yarns which cause editors to draft acceptances and less fortunate writers to grind their teeth in despair.

Another point is also noteworthy. Keith never permits any woman, not even his wife, Sheila, whom he married after her repentant return from the arms of the elderly Lothario, to accompany him on those yearly outings. Sometimes Sheila complains, but all her arguments prove vain. Keith always finds excuses for leaving her at home.

He tells her, too, that they are only fishing trips. But he never brings back any fish.

END