STRANGE GATEWAY

Originally published in Unknown, April 1939.

It is said that prolonged fasting opens a gateway which is closed to normal senses; that fever or drugs, for instance, can blaze a path across the border of consciousness. I know that fatigue can open that strange gate. There are lessons that can be learned without understanding.

The setting sun reddened the plateau of Arizona. Sterile crags rose through haze and hell glamour; first they were ruddy buff, then a lurid purple. As the light changed, they became coal-black with threats of fire behind it. All this glare beat through the windshield, making my eyes burn and sting. I had slept only in winks during the past three days, and now this drive, with no stops except for coffee and gasoline.

I needed money badly, and at once. Jeff Grant had several thousand dollars worth of nuggets in his mountain cabin. He had not answered my letter. Probably it was still at the post office, waiting until he and his wife came to town for supplies. And since I had waited too long for a reply there was nothing to do but head west. Trains were too slow, and planes too expensive.

Finally coolness drove out the blast-furnace wind that had seared my face all day. For a while that lifted the burden of fatigue. Then the increasing elevation made my head swim. I was dizzy, and the chill of a mile above sea level began to bite home. The worst twelve hours were still ahead, for a life depended on my keeping awake.

Not that failure would actually cause my kid brother’s death; he’d live, all right. But he’d be a cripple—a helpless twist of scar tissue if he did not get to a specialist, and in a hurry. The furnace explosion that caused the damage was my fault. Just one of those absent-minded moves, followed by a sheet of flame

Once I had Grant’s hoarded nuggets I could wire the funds back home and quit wondering if the kid might get a genuine break by not living.

I had calculated on the tortuous road beyond Last Chance. The lights of the mining town were scarcely behind me when the effects of a quart of strong coffee wore off, and the fight began.

The feeble headlights were none too well focused, which was normal for the antique I drove. Slowly, surely, my eyes were glazing from the monotony of following that snaking white center line.

My hands automatically manipulated the wheel, and my foot the brake. This was as it should be, until I became somewhat too unconscious of these movements. My ears were filled with the grumble of the engine. The unvarying note became hypnotic.

Suddenly I found myself halted with the front wheels almost over the edge of a thousand-foot drop. Instinct had failed for a split second, and I had not swung the now heavy wheel in time. My foot had saved me.

I broke out in a sweat, thinking of the next curve, when foot and hand might fail together. The shock aroused me. I was wide awake. The silence frightened me. It was only after several seconds that I realized I had killed the engine.

For some miles I drove on, and not uncomfortably. Then the reserves, which fright had lashed to the surface, began to burn out. Once, perhaps twice, a faster-moving car overtook me. One which approached had fairly blinded me, forcing me to the very edge of the precipice.

I stared into the darkness, looking for some wide spot used by the highway maintenance crews as gravel dumps. But each time, taken by surprise, I overshot my mark. I passed on, and I could not trust myself to back up, nor to risk a U-turn. Fatigue had become an enemy who patiently waited for my first false move. I could feel the menace. Safety lay in straight movement in my own narrow lane.

I tried to sing, to whistle; anything to keep from sleeping at the wheel. The false recuperation at the last gas stop had kept me from making the rounds of the town to find some caffeine tablets. I was not getting my “second wind.” I had no reserves. They had been exhausted during that nerve-racking day and by the sleepless nights that had preceded it.

My eyes glazed. They stared sightlessly at the white line and the winding gray of the pavement. I slowed down to a crawl. Fatigue and anxiety had whipped me. But finally, despite my dim headlights, I spied a wide spot where I could park without risk.

I remember saying “Thank God!”

Likewise, I cut off the engine. Now that there was no danger from exhaust fumes, I raised the window. Then I slumped across the wheel. Of all this I am certain. But to this day I can only guess what followed.

I was driving again, and I was not tired. Jeff Grant was talking to me from the back seat—though this did not seem strange at the time.

“Of course, the money’s there, Bill,” he said, answering my question. “When you grubstaked me, pretending you thought I might do a little prospecting while my lungs improved, I took you at your word. Something told me I’d find a couple of pockets. Enough to pay you back.”

I don’t know just what I replied. I must have inquired about his wife. Women are funny about some things. She might raise merry hell about him handing me three-four thousand dollars—more than I actually needed—when I had staked him to only a couple hundred.

Grant was amused at my qualms. “Irene’s not that way! She’s been wonderful, sticking through hell and high water. Way up in that lonely little cabin. She thinks you’re tops, too. I didn’t hide your share to keep it from her. That was just…well, so it’d be safe and ready any time you’d accept it.”

Months ago I had refused Grant’s offer of a cut. True, I had grubstaked him, and according to old mining tradition, fifty percent of take was mine. But I had never believed he’d have any luck. I’d really staked him to a chance to get well. It didn’t seem right to accept a profit on such an investment. You can’t ever tell when these lungers have a relapse, or need expensive hospitalization.

“Jeff,” I said, “you’re a godsend, if there ever was one—” Then, abruptly, my voice became unusually loud. I was driving. I was alone, and I had absolutely no recollection of having started up the engine, pulled out of that wide spot.

I kicked the brakes. The shock of realizing what I had done left me wide awake. I saw a highway marker. A town was only five miles away. The distance, just before I pulled up to rest, had been over thirty miles.

I had driven that stretch while asleep! That was bad enough, but this was worse: I had retained enough contact with my surroundings to have the illusion of being awake. With this half truth had come an outright hallucination, that of talking with Grant. It seemed now that I had also had a few words with Irene. People, some alive but long forgotten, others long dead, had occasionally made the conversation three-cornered.

That frightened me. Not the conversation, but the fact that my tormented senses had reached a stage when they could trick me to death.

I sat there, woodenly wheeling the car down grade. The road was wider. Presently, before the stimulus of the shock wore off, I was rolling into a town whose name I do not any longer recollect.

There was a restaurant. I went in and called for a bowl of chili and some coffee. The waiter stared at me, particularly when I asked him how far it was to Prescott. Certainly there are many who drive all night. Neither was it my sweat and grease-grimed shirt of dust-caked face; many a truck driver is more disheveled.

The fellow rang up the money and pushed the change at me without a word. I was still a little dazed, despite eating, walking across the street, and resting my eyes from the stupefying white line. The waiter must have seen something in my face which alarmed him.

I mean, he knew, as a dog or cat knows things, that he was looking at a man whose senses were still away from his body. Literally, I was not all there. Some of me must still have been beyond that strange gateway. At the time I did not know how far one can go and still return.

My mind was working and so were my senses, but very slowly. I drove accordingly. I was fairly bloated with strong coffee, and the strong cigar did its bit. Not the smoke, but the tobacco clamped between my teeth.

The going was better for a while. Getting to Prescott was no great problem. Neither did I have any difficulty in finding the side road that led to Grant’s mountain retreat. I was not even dismayed at the thought of the last three miles of the one-way trail which I would have to make in low gear once I branched from the secondary highway.

Perhaps the shock and strain had numbed apprehension. At the time it seemed that I had tapped an ultimate reserve. But this was not so. Quite the contrary, as it later developed.

It was nearly four o’clock when I reached the foot of the final ascent. A treacherous grayness blurred everything, and wisps of mist banded the road. Perhaps they were dust haze that had freakishly climbed, though that made no difference. They warped the shapes of stunted trees. Once two headlights loomed up, great yellow blobs, bearing straight at me.

I yelled and pulled over. They swung to meet me. Some fool was not only on the wrong side of the road, but bent on pushing me over the edge. Before I could jump, I realized that a shifting haze band had mirrored my own headlights. Its sudden reaching into a clear space had given me the worst shock of the drive.

It took a moment or two for me to collect myself. I was still shaking when someone said: “Hi, Bill! I got your letter.”

Grant’s voice. I croaked something that wasn’t quite articulate and swung toward the door. My sleeve accidentally caught the headlight switch and snapped it off. In the sudden gloom I could just see him—rather, I could distinguish his shape, the blurred pale blotch of his face.

He said: “When I saw the postmark on your letter, I was sure you’d be here before I could answer. Irene is in Prescott. I had a hunch. I had to come out here to meet you. It seemed crazy, but I didn’t want you to get to the cabin and wonder why we weren’t there.”

I poked out my hand. After that first chat with Grant, miles back, I did not quite know what to make of it all. His voice seemed to talk to my mind rather than my ear. The elevation plays tricks with one’s hearing.

He evaded my hand and said: “Easy, Bill! Your grip is too tough! I wrenched my wrist—up there.”

He gestured toward the trail I could just distinguish.

“Where’s your car?” I groped.

“Back there, in the turnout.” He half turned, making a vague gesture. “You’re tired as hell. You sound dead on your feet. Go up to the cabin and turn in while I go back to get Irene. I’d’ve waited at home, but you know how women are about postponing their shopping.”

I think I chuckled. I was weaving on my feet, and my ears still hummed from the rumble of the engine. The sound had grown into me. During all those hours it had filled a silence into which nothing else intruded.

Grant did not offer to guide me to the cabin. I knew the way, having helped him truck his luggage up there a year previous. It all seemed natural as anything could, under the circumstances. As I kicked the starter, I heard his voice again: “I’ll get Irene—” Something about that last bit made me shiver. His laugh and its bitter note jarred me. Maybe they had quarreled. Solitude might have frayed her nerves.

I did not hear the starting of his car. Mine made too much noise.

“So that’s it. Maybe she left him and he wants to patch things up—temporarily, for appearance’s sake.”

Fighting the wheel became such a struggle that I began to shake off my dullness. It was not until I lurched over the shoulder of the clearing and saw the weather-beaten cabin in the yellow headlight glow that I knew how thoroughly beaten I was.

I left my suitcase in the back seat. The cabin door swung slowly in the twisting breeze. The hinges creaked. I stumbled in. The letdown of having finally reached the goal made my legs sag. My brain became a chunk of wood. I reeled in the musty darkness. My flashlight was in the car, but I’d drop if I went after it. There were matches in my pocket. Finding them took endless fumbling.

When I did get them the problem was to pick one out and strike it. The floor was billowing—so I thought, until I sprawled flat. I scarcely felt the shock. An instinctive grab into the gloom brought my hand to the edge of the double-decked bunk in the alcove.

I crawled up to it and flopped in a heap. The blanket was under me. As I clawed about, trying to pull some of it over my shoulders, dust from the folds made me sneeze. That was my final impression. I was in a stupor before I could wonder at Irene’s housekeeping—

There was the usual perplexity that follows awakening in a strange house. I sat up and blinked into the murky gray that thinned all but the farther shadows of the smoke-stained, single room structure.

“Hell—this is no time to wake up.”

I poked my face into the dusty pillow and got a better arrangement of the blanket. Suddenly I realized that it was not brightening, but becoming darker. I would no longer see the little wood stove in the kitchen corner.

This was not dawn, but dusk!

That brought me to my feet. “Jeff!” I called, blinking and weaving. “Don’t worry about waking me. Irene!”

There was no answer. I hurried to the door and saw the last sullen red of sunset. A clothesline, frayed and wind-whipped, trailed from the corner of the cabin. A shred of faded pink chiffon was still pinned to the broken line. Unburied tin cans rusted near the incinerator Grant had made of salvaged sheet iron.

And grass cropped up in the path that led to the steps.

My skin began tingling. I felt as though I had been clubbed just short of unconsciousness. This was a bit too much to digest. Then I said: “They’ve had a serious tiff, and he doesn’t want to come up and tell me about it until he sees he can’t dodge it.”

I went back into the cabin and struck a match. There was a kerosene lamp on the wall bracket. The bowl was half full. Once I had a light I looked around. I began to think I might have come to the wrong place. Outside it was too dark to pick any certain landmarks or identifying features.

Inside—well, Irene had put up frilly dotted Swiss curtains. There was a bookcase all filled with Grant’s favorites. He was a scholarly chap, and thus isolation had not depressed him. It would be otherwise with Irene.

But why in hell hadn’t Grant given me any consideration? Dignified reticence had its limits! He certainly had wit enough to devise a story that would keep me from asking embarrassing questions. I begin to realize that I was offering myself far-fetched “reasons” for not giving things a close look.

I could no longer dodge it. Something was wrong, plenty wrong somewhere. He had been too hasty in side-tracking me. That was out of character. No amount of roughing it would make him so casual and indifferent to a friend’s comfort and pressing need. I had never doubted his gratitude. All the more since he had never embarrassed me with fluent expression of it.

But there was food, even if no host. Canned sausages, milk, corn, and the like. Coffee and sugar. A pile of wood was in the corner, and aluminum utensils hung from pegs on the wall.

What I did not like was the dried-out loaf of bread, and the water pail whose inside was ringed, showing the slow dropping of the level as the contents evaporated. This could not be Grant’s cabin. It had not been occupied for weeks.

Outside I heard the gurgling of a spring. I got my flashlight from the car, but I scarcely needed it. The spring was in the familiar location I half remembered. I became more and more uneasy, and my efforts to convince myself that this was the wrong cabin fell flat.

Coffee and a can of beans gave me new life for a little while. I planted myself in a rocker and looked over some of Grant’s books. Some of them were on mining. These were new. Theory apparently had helped him make that strike which a few days’ work had exhausted. Others were poems and essays, a Bible, and some classics.

There was one which stared at me; a thin, green volume. “Yogi Philosophy,” by Ramacharaka. Just why I reached for that, of all things, I don’t know. I vaguely knew that this was one of the occult works to which Grant’s studious disposition had logically enough turned during his illness. But I had never had the least interest in a subject I considered the specialty of neurotics.

I didn’t make much of the first chapter, though I was surprised at the grip and animation Ramacharaka gave to his discussion.

“Death is but an aspect of life, and the destruction of one material form is but a prelude to the building up of another,” he wrote.

The way he expressed it, death was no more than a transformation—not an ending. But for our instinct to remain on this “plane,” it would have no terror.

The next thing that caught my eye was “astral body.” But my material body was claiming its due. The pages danced and shimmered before my eyes; I nodded, very much as I had during that long drive. “—astral body of a dying person is sometimes projected by an earnest desire, and is, at such times, seen by friends with whom he is in sympathy—”

That scarcely registered. Before stepping toward the bunk, I blinked and read on, not because I was particularly interested, but because the persistence that had so long kept me awake would not relax. “—astral body is invisible to the ordinary eye—readily perceived by those having clairvoyant power—astral body of a living person may be seen by friends and others—”

I dropped the book on the table and wondered if Grant’s astral body had been talking to me during that thirty-mile stretch I had driven while in my dismaying half sleep.

This time I decided to rest under blankets. I shook them out. A hatchet fell from the folds. No wonder I’d developed more sore spots! I paid no particular attention to it, except that it was rusty. After blowing out the lamp I picked my way to the bed, kicked off my shoes, and rolled in.

There was no point in driving down to Prescott to look for Grant. I did not know where he and Irene were staying, and there was the chance of missing him and causing just that much more delay. And I was still half stupid from exhaustion.

Grant’s strange conduct troubled my rest. Indeed, I was far from certain that I actually was asleep. That was natural, having gotten up to get breakfast at dusk—

My awakening was sudden. The cabin was flooded with light—the kind you see sometimes shining from behind thin clouds. And I was no longer alone. A man lay on the opposite bunk. He was reading a book.

I could not see much of his face, only his forehead, high and tanned, and crisp black hair that was brushed straight back. He was lean and rangy. His hands were long and brown and well shaped. They were familiar as the laced boots he wore. He did not have to lower the green book for me to know that Jeff Grant had returned.

I tried to say hello, but couldn’t move my lips. It was like trying to yell in a dream and not being able to make a sound. I wanted to say: “When did you get here?” All I could do was shiver and notice that there was no sign of Irene about the cabin.

He did not turn a page, nor glance my way. What gave me my first fright was when closing my eyes failed to shut out anything at all. There was light, though the lamp was not burning. I tried to whip my terror by telling myself that fatigue does the damnedest things to a fellow. Lord knows, I’d learned that on the road.

I wish now that I had searched the cabin, at least tried to find the hoard of nuggets. I didn’t want to see Grant or talk to him. If I had been able to move, I’d have gotten out at one bound.

All at once the door slowly opened, an inch at a time. There was no sound now. There should have been, for the hinge was rusty.

The head and shoulders of a woman pushed through. Her hair was red, and her eyes were brown: striking, that combination, with her cream-colored skin. Arizona’s dry winds had not seared Irene’s loveliness. Her hand at the door jamb was smooth and her nails gleamed red. She had lovely arms, and her slow movement was like a cat.

Her eyes were narrowed and feline, and her red mouth so tight that it marred the sweetness of the face I remembered. I knew now that there had been hell popping between Irene and Grant. He’d stir soon enough.

But she did not come in. Like that, she was gone. It was dark outside. While I was still trying to turn and spy her in the gloom, a man came up. He was big and blond and good-looking, in a way; not quite thirty, which made him perhaps ten years younger than Grant.

He had a hatchet in his hand. It looked like the one I had shaken out of the blankets, except that it gleamed. He stood in the doorway for some moments, half crouching, eying Grant. Finally he slunk in, tiptoeing. He had the hatchet behind his back.

By that time I had stopped breathing. I was not even sure that this was real. Too many strange things had come out of that tough drive. I felt like the time I had gotten a lungful of fumes from a copper smelter: too paralyzed to cough or breathe; and invisible strait-jacket binding my chest.

The man at the door jumped. I closed my eyes, but that made no difference. I saw his hatchet sink deep into Grant’s head. Blood spurted all over and ran down the open pages of the book. The murderer stood and watched Grant’s heels kick up, then slump down.

I couldn’t see Grant’s face for blood. All I saw was the twitching of his fingers, the gaping of his mouth, the slowing up of the shudder that twisted his lean body.

The blond man picked up the book. Oddly, its covers had not been stained. But I knew now what had stuck some of its back pages together, and why the edges were dark. It was Ramacharaka’s volume, and the slayer carefully replaced it. A strange thing to do at the time—but he did just that.

Perhaps the shock of the killing had numbed him, as anticipation had stupefied me. Then he seized the hatchet by the handle and jerked it from Grant’s cloven skull. He stood there, as if wondering whether to wipe it or drop it.

He did that last. That was when Irene came in. Her eyes widened when she saw Grant. Then she laughed crazily, and he stuttered: “I did it.”

“Hap, darling!” The sweetness of her voice was horrible. It was worse when he caught her in his arms and she sighed: “I couldn’t have done it. I was afraid you couldn’t either!”

He kissed her, and they stood there, swaying drunkenly. She was crying now, and he was stroking her red hair. He must have stained it and her white dress with blood from his hands, but I could not see that.

“What’ll we do now?” He stepped back and held her away from him. She was calmer now, and he was shaking. His voice trembled.

“Wrap him up. Bury him, silly. You can’t leave him this way.”

“Ground’s too hard to dig. God, we got to get away.”

She caught his shoulder and shook him. “Pull yourself together.”

He had forgotten the bottle in his pocket until she took it and said: “Take some more of it!”

Irene deftly folded the stained blanket over Grant. I could see her plain as day; her slim, shapely legs, the frivolous little shoes that must be brand-new or the rough country would have scarred them in a day.

“In that last prospect hole, Hap,” she panted, catching the shrouded corpse. “Give me a hand. Quick—before—”

“What’ll we tell them?” he asked as they carried Grant to the door.

“Hemorrhage. It often happens to lungers. I told you that. We’ll put up a cross.” She laughed shrilly as she backed down the single step, and Hap followed her with Grant’s feet. “Don’t you see, mark the grave, don’t hide it!”

I don’t know how long they were gone. It was so far beyond reality that I could not judge. I lay there, helpless in that invisible strait-jacket. That they had not noticed me did not seem illogical. After all this, nothing was strange—only horrible.

They came back, and their hands were clean. They had washed at the spring, and Irene was sluicing the floor with a pail of water. Hap was prying into a closet, examining chinks in the wall, poking at loose stones in the fireplace. He was looking for Grant’s hoard—for my share, rather.

Irene’s hints were futile. Finally Hap wiped his forehead.

“To hell with it! I’m not looking any farther! Let his buddy have it if he comes for it! I’ve got you—” Irene gestured. He turned, startled by her change of expression. They both faced me, and for the first time they were aware of my presence. She made wordless sounds, and he licked his lips. They were afraid of me; I had seen it from start to finish.

Maybe the shadows cast by the upper deck of the bunk had hidden me.

Irene screamed: “O-o-o-o-oh—”

Hap dropped to his knees. I’ve never seen such a fast move. He scooped up the hatchet and hurled it. There was another yell. A yell in the darkness—my own voice. He had missed, and the spell was cracked. The strange light was out. I could move, and I did.

I cursed like a madman. Any human sound at all would help. Then I controlled myself. The outside silence could mean but one thing: they were creeping up to finish me. My yells had warned them. No mortally wounded man could have set such a roof-shaking racket.

Irene knew that I had recognized her. She had to be sure I was finished. This fatal logic struck me as clearly as it must have struck the two outside. Had they not been lurking to ambush me there would have been some sound. It is strange how clearly one reasons when nothing is reasonable.

One of my enemies was a woman, slender and not tall, but I knew better than to think that that made her less dangerous. Having egged her lover to murder, she would have to save him and herself. So I reached for the hatchet. Luck was with me. I caught it at the first attempt and crept toward the door.

To parley with those mad people would have been folly. I did not want to avoid the clash. What had happened was now a fact, rather than a horror that had held me paralyzed. I could hardly keep from cursing them, from charging out with the weapon that was red with poor Grant’s blood.

That gentle, scholarly fellow struck down like a steer. His valiant fight for health ending in a pool of spilled brains. I crept toward the door, silently as they had stalked him.

Then I heard a stealthy crunch of gravel outside. A warning hiss. I could feel their presence. In the gloom I could just distinguish two vague shapes that were not quite abreast. They had hardly more than rounded the bulk of my Ford.

“I don’t hear him.” Irene could not have realized how far a whisper carried in that thin air. “Not a sign.”

Hap’s muttered warning silenced her. The gravel whispered and the shadow of a pine blotted them out. I was now at the threshold. Something white shaped itself in the gloom, and nearer than before. Irene’s dress, her extended arm. Then I caught a metallic glint.

The tension was too much. I should have waited, but I couldn’t. My own voice sounded strange, as though it came from someone else. I don’t know what I tried to say; it was a snarl that became a yell as I leaped, and with a lightness beyond any understanding.

I was afraid I was fatally slow. I clearly saw the rising arc of blued metal. But Hap wasn’t quick. He had made no sound. I was on him before a spurt of flame tore the shadows. I felt the heat, the stinging of powder on my cheek and throat. The concussion nearly broke my eardrum.

But I was inside his reach. I had moved faster than strained eyes could follow in that light—and I felt the chunk of the broad-bitted hatchet going home. He never had a chance to cry out. A second shot blazed wild as the force of my crazy leap carried him with me.

Hap rolled over backward. The slope was steep. Irene screamed, thin and shrill. I felt her soft body recoil before my shoulder. She clawed me once. I wanted to brain her, but the hatchet was buried in Hap’s head. I yelled: “You dirty—You—” The white blur and the warm contact faded. Brush crackled and rocks rattled. There was another wail, and then only a thump—thump—a faint and final thump. At last came a splash from the pool which the spring’s slow trickle fed, far down in the ravine.

The last rock had clattered to rest. I was clinging to an exposed root of the pine tree. My failure to seize Irene had kept me from falling down that deadly slope. It was easy enough to pull myself back over the shoulder.

Dawn was already graying. I was sick and shaking, and barely got to the running board of the old Model A. Bit by bit the thinning of the shadows revealed Hap and the pistol he had dropped. His head was as bad as Grant’s; I was glad, but I did not like the spectacle.

The growing light revealed forgotten contours of the little shelf which supported the cabin. It was almost inevitable that Irene and Hap would creep along the dangerous edge to sneak up on me. And, but for my insane counterattack, they would have finished me.

I finally nerved myself to go in and look at the gory room. Then I remembered that they had gone out to dump him into the prospect hole, and put a cross over him. Not far down the gentler part of the slope I saw a cross.

Grass grew about its base! The wind and the biting Arizona sun had weathered the crudely painted name and date: Jefferson L. Grant, June 12 1897—Oct. 8, 1938. And this was mid-April of the following year.

The whole thing took me minutes to digest. I went into the cabin, and by dim daylight saw its forlorn dustiness; the feminine garments that still hung in a curtained corner; the spatters of dry blood that dotted the blankets of the bunk opposite the one on which Grant had been murdered.

Finally I picked Ramacharaka’s book from the table where I had laid it. The final hundred-odd pages were glued together at the edges, and two were stuck face to face with long-dried blood. Somehow what I had seen in the cabin had been—No, not a dream. Something unreal in any physical sense, yet more than a dream. I now understood my strange paralysis, the eerie light, Grant’s immobility as he lay there, reading. This apparition had told me how he had died; it had also warned me against—

I glanced out and saw Hap’s body huddled on the ground. That was not illusion. I shuddered, thinking how narrowly I had missed death.

Later I found the money Grant had set aside for me; not nuggets, but in hundred-dollar bills slipped between the pages of books. The treacherous wife and her lover had looked for gold and missed their mark. And when I made my report to the sheriff I learned more.

My letter to Mr. Jefferson L. Grant had been forwarded to Irene. That had worried her and Hap. Worried them so much that “something” moved them to try to waylay me. In view of Hap’s pistol, the sheriff called my counterattack self-defense. He assured me that I’d not be indicted on Irene’s account. Opening Grant’s grave clinched my story. A hatchet had split his skull.

“You done right, killing her with Hap. Hell, the coroner’ll call it accidental. He’d better.”

But I didn’t kill Irene. I know now what met me at the road fork, a thousand feet below; I know what Grant meant by saying he was “going to get Irene.” He was hammering, in some strange way, on the wedge that my letter had driven into Irene’s security. In a way that Ramacharaka perhaps could explain, Grant had called the astral bodies of his wife and her lover to re-enact the murder.

Fatigue, as I said, had opened a strange gateway so that I could look over the border, so that at times I crossed it. I don’t know how it would have worked out had I not seen Grant. In the end, I am sure, it would have been the same. Perhaps my coming opened a gateway for Grant. For I don’t think he was as much moved by vengeance as by the urge to tell me enough to help me when I needed a lift.

There are plenty of answers. Psychologists will offer one set; occultists another. Reasons, finally, don’t count for a great deal. All I can say is, even if I knew how, I’d not deliberately open a strange gateway. Once was enough—