A Short, Shuddery Tale Is
By ROBERT E. HOWARD
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales February 1928.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The night was strangely still. As we sat upon the wide veranda, gazingout over the broad, shadowy lawns, the silence of the hour entered ourspirits and for a long while no one spoke.
Then far across the dim mountains that fringed the eastern skyline, afaint haze began to glow, and presently a great golden moon came up,making a ghostly radiance over the land and etching boldly the darkclumps of shadows that were trees. A light breeze came whispering outof the east, and the unmowed grass swayed before it in long, sinuouswaves, dimly visible in the moonlight; and from among the group uponthe veranda there came a swift gasp, a sharp intake of breath thatcaused us all to turn and gaze.
Faming was leaning forward, clutching the arms of his chair, his facestrange and pallid in the spectral light; a thin trickle of bloodseeping from the lip in which he had set his teeth. Amazed, we lookedat him, and suddenly he jerked about with a short, snarling laugh.
"There's no need of gawking at me like a flock of sheep!" he saidirritably and stopped short. We sat bewildered, scarcely knowing whatsort of reply to make, and suddenly he burst out again.
"Now I guess I'd better tell the whole thing or you'll be going offand putting me down as a lunatic. Don't interrupt me, any of you! Iwant to get this thing off my mind. You all know that I'm not a veryimaginative man; but there's a thing, purely a figment of imagination,that has haunted me since babyhood. A dream!" He fairly cringed back inhis chair as he muttered, "A dream! and God, what a dream! The firsttime—no, I can't remember the first time I ever dreamed it—I've beendreaming the hellish thing ever since I can remember. Now it's thisway: there is a sort of bungalow, set upon a hill in the midst ofwide grasslands—not unlike this estate; but this scene is in Africa.And I am living there with a sort of servant, a Hindoo. Just why I amthere is never clear to my waking mind, though I am always aware ofthe reason in my dreams. As a man of a dream, I remember my past life(a life which in no way corresponds with my waking life), but when Iam awake my subconscious mind fails to transmit these impressions.However, I think that I am a fugitive from justice and the Hindoois also a fugitive. How the bungalow came to be there I can neverremember, nor do I know in what part of Africa it is, though all thesethings are known to my dream self. But the bungalow is a small oneof a very few rooms, and is situated upon the top of the hill, as Isaid. There are no other hills about and the grasslands stretch to thehorizon in every direction; knee-high in some places, waist-high inothers.
"Now the dream always opens as I am coming up the hill, just as the sunis beginning to set. I am carrying a broken rifle and I have been ona hunting trip; how the rifle was broken, and the full details of thetrip, I clearly remember—dreaming. But never upon waking. It is justas if a curtain were suddenly raised and a drama began; or just as if Iwere suddenly transferred to another man's body and life, rememberingpast years of that life, and not cognizant of any other existence. Andthat is the hellish part of it! As you know, most of us, dreaming, are,at the back of our consciousness, aware that we are dreaming. No matterhow horrible the dream may become, we know that it is a dream, and thusinsanity or possible death is staved off. But in this particul