Weird Tales, Volume 1, Number 1, March 1923: The unique magazine

Published monthly by the RURAL PUBLISHING CORPORATION, 934 North Clark Street, Chicago, Ill. Application made for entry at the postoffice at Chicago, Ill., as second class matter. Single copies, 25 cents: subscription, $3 a year in the United States, $3.50 in Canada. The publishers are not responsible for the loss of unsolicited manuscripts in transit, by fire, or otherwise, although every precaution is taken with such material. All manuscripts should be typewritten and must be accompanied by stamped and self-addressed envelopes. The contents of this magazine are fully protected by copyright, and publishers are cautioned against using the same, either wholly or in part.

Copyright, 1923, by the Rural Publishing Corporation.

VOLUME 1 25 Cents NUMBER 1

Contents for March, 1923

TWENTY-TWO REMARKABLE SHORT STORIES

The Mystery of Black Jean JULIAN KILMAN 41 A story of blood-curdling realism, with a smashing surprise at the end.

The Grave ORVILLE R. EMERSON 47 A soul-gripping story of terror.

Hark! The Rattle! JOEL TOWNSLEY ROGERS 53 An uncommon tale that will cling to your memory for many a day.

The Ghost Guard BRYAN IRVINE 59 A "spooky" tale with a grim background.

The Ghoul and the Corpse G. A. WELLS 65 An amazing yarn of weird adventure in the frozen North.

Fear DAVID R. SOLOMON 73 Showing how fear can drive a strong man to the verge of insanity.

The Place of Madness MERLIN MOORE TAYLOR 89 What two hours in a prison "solitary" did to a man.

The Closing Hand FARNSWORTH WRIGHT 98 A brief story powerfully written.

The Unknown Beast HOWARD ELLIS DAVIS 100 An unusual tale of a terrifying monster.

The Basket HERBERT J. MANGHAM 106 A queer little story about San Francisco.

The Accusing Voice MEREDITH DAVIS 110 The singular experience of Allen Defoe.

The Sequel WALTER SCOTT STORY 119 A new conclusion to Edgar Allen Poe's "Cask of Amontillado."

The Weaving Shadows W. H. HOLMES 122 Chet Burke's strange adventures in a haunted house.

Nimba, the Cave Girl R. T. M. SCOTT 131 An odd, fantastic little story of the Stone Age.

The Young Man Who Wanted to Die??? 135 An anonymous author submits a startling answer to the question, "What comes after death?"

The Scarlet Night WILLIAM SANFORD 140 A tale with an eerie thrill.

The Extraordinary Experiment of Dr. Calgroni JOSEPH FAUS and JAMES BENNETT WOODING 143 An eccentric doctor creates a frightful living thing.

The Return of Paul Slavsky CAPT. GEORGE WARBURTON LEWIS 150 A "creepy" tale that ends in a shuddering, breath-taking way.

The House of Death F. GEORGIA STROUP 156 The strange secret of a lonely woman.

The Gallows I. W. D. PETERS 161 An out-of-the-ordinary story.

The Skull HAROLD WARD 164 A grim tale with a terrifying end.

The Ape-Man JAMES B. M. CLARK, JR. 169 A Jungle tale that is somehow "different."

THREE UNUSUAL NOVELETTES

The Dead Man's Tale WILLARD E. HAWKINS 7 An astounding yarn that will hold you spellbound and make you breathe fast with a new mental sensation.

Ooze ANTHONY M. RUD 19 A Remarkable short novel by a master of "gooseflesh" fiction.

The Chain HAMILTON CRAIGIE 77 Craigie is at his best here.

A STRANGE NOVEL IN TWO PARTS

The Thing of a Thousand Shapes OTIS ADELBERT KLINE 32 Don't start this story late at night.

THE EYRIE THE EDITOR 180

Also a number of odd facts and queer fancies, crowded in for good measure

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"Gooseflesh" Stories

Tales of horror—or "gooseflesh" stories—are commonly shunned by magazine editors. Few, if any, will consider such a story, no matter how interesting it may be. They believe that the public doesn't want this sort of fiction. We, however, believe otherwise. We believe there are tens of thousands—perhaps hundreds of thousands—of intelligent renders who really enjoy "gooseflesh" stories. Hence--

=Weird Tales=.

The Unique MAGAZINE

WEIRD TALES offers such fiction as you can find in no other magazine—fantastic stories, extraordinary stories, grotesque stories, stories of strange and bizarre adventure—the sort of stories, in brief, that will startle and amaze you. Every story in this issue of WEIRD TALES is an odd and remarkable flight of man's imagination. Some are "creepy," some deal in masterly fashion with "forbidden" subjects, like insanity, some are concerned with the supernatural and others with material things of horror—all are out of the ordinary, surprisingly new and unusual. A sensational departure from the beaten track—that is the reason for

=Weird Tales=.

WEIRD TALES

THE UNIQUE MAGAZINE

Edited by Edwin Baird

VOLUME ONE 25c A COPY MARCH, 1923 SUBSCRIPTION $3.00 A YEAR NUMBER ONE $3.50 IN CANADA

For Scalp-prickling Thrills and Stark Terror, Read

The

DEAD MAN'S TALE

By Willard E. Hawkins

The curious narrative that follows was found among the papers of the late Dr. John Pedric, psychical investigator and author of occult works. It bears evidences of having been received through automatic writing, as were several of his publications. Unfortunately, there are no records to confirm this assumption, and none of the mediums or assistants employed by him in his research work admits knowledge of it. Possibly—for the Doctor was reputed to possess some psychic powers—it may have been received by him. At any rate, the lack of data renders the recital useless as a document for the Society for Psychical Research. It is published for whatever intrinsic interest or significance it may possess. With reference to the names mentioned, it may be added that they are not confirmed by the records of the War Department. It could be maintained, however, that purposely fictitious names were substituted, either by the Doctor or the communicating entity.

They called me—when I walked the earth in a body of dense matter—Richard Devaney. Though my story has little to do with the war, I was killed in the second battle of the Marne, on July 24, 1918.

Many times, as men were wont to do who felt the daily, hourly imminence of death in the trenches, I had pictured that event in my mind and wondered what it would be like. Mainly I had inclined toward a belief in total extinction. That, when the vigorous, full-blooded body I possessed should lie bereft of its faculties, I, as a creature apart from it, should go on, was beyond credence. The play of life through the human machine, I reasoned, was like the flow of gasoline into the motor of an automobile. Shut off that flow, and the motor became inert, dead, while the fluid which had given it power was in itself nothing.

And so, I confess, it was a surprise to discover that I was dead and yet not dead.

I did not make the discovery at once. There had been a blinding concussion, a moment of darkness, a sensation of falling—falling—into a deep abyss. An indefinite time afterward, I found myself standing dazedly on the hillside, toward the crest of which we had been pressing against the enemy. The thought came that I must have momentarily lost consciousness. Yet now I felt strangely free from physical discomfort.

What had I been doing when that moment of blackness blotted everything out? I had been dominated by a purpose, a flaming desire----

Like a flash, recollection burst upon me, and, with it, a blaze of hatred—not toward the Boche gunners, ensconced in the woods above us, but toward the private enemy I had been about to kill.

It had been the opportunity for which I had waited interminable days and nights. In the open formation, he kept a few paces ahead of me. As we alternately ran forward, then dropped on our bellies and fired, I had watched my chance. No one would suspect, with the dozens who were falling every moment under the merciless fire from the trees beyond, that the bullet which ended Louis Winston's career came from a comrade's rifle.

Twice I had taken aim, but withheld my fire—not from indecision, but lest, in my vengeful heat, I might fail to reach a vital spot. When I raised my rifle the third time, he offered a fair target.

God! how I hated him. With fingers itching to speed the steel toward his heart, I forced myself to remain calm—to hold fire for that fragment of a second that would insure careful aim.

Then, as the pressure of my finger tightened against the trigger, came the blinding flash—the moment of blackness.

II.

I had evidently remained unconscious longer than I realized.

Save for a few figures that lay motionless or squirming in agony on the field, the regiment had passed on, to be lost in the trees at the crest of the hill. With a pang of disappointment, I realized that Louis would be among them.

Involuntarily I started onward, driven still by that impulse of burning hatred, when I heard my name called.

Turning in surprise, I saw a helmeted figure crouching beside something huddled in the tall grass. No second glance was needed to tell me that the huddled something was the body of a soldier. I had eyes only for the man who was bending over him. Fate had been kind to me. It was Louis.

Apparently, in his preoccupation, he had not noticed me. Coolly I raised my rifle and fired.

The result was startling. Louis neither dropped headlong nor looked up at the report. Vaguely I questioned whether there had been a report.

Thwarted, I felt the lust to kill mounting in me with redoubled fury. With rifle upraised, I ran toward him. A terrific swing, and I crashed the stock against his head.

It passed clear through! Louis remained unmoved.

Uncomprehending, snarling, I flung the useless weapon away and fell upon him with bare hands—with fingers that strained to rend and tear and strangle.

Instead of encountering solid flesh and bone, they too passed through him.

Was it a mirage? A dream? Had I gone crazy? Sobered—for a moment forgetful of my fury—I drew back and tried to reduce the thing to reason. Was Louis but a figment of the imagination—a phantom?