The CURSE of YIG

                         By ZEALIA BROWN REED

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Weird Tales November 1929.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


In 1925 I went into Oklahoma looking for snake lore, and I came out
with a fear of snakes that will last me the rest of my life. I admit
it is foolish, since there are natural explanations for everything I
saw and heard, but it masters me none the less. If the old story had
been all there was to it, I would not have been so badly shaken. My
work as an American Indian ethnologist has hardened me to all kinds of
extravagant legendry, and I know that simple white people can beat the
redskins at their own game when it comes to fanciful inventions. But
I can't forget what I saw with my own eyes at the insane asylum in
Guthrie.

I called at that asylum because a few of the oldest settlers told me
I would find something important there. Neither Indians nor white men
would discuss the snake-god legends I had come to trace. The oil-boom
newcomers, of course, knew nothing of such matters, and the red men and
old pioneers were plainly frightened when I spoke of them. Not more
than six or seven people mentioned the asylum, and those who did were
careful to talk in whispers. But the whisperers said that Dr. McNeill
could show me a very terrible relic and tell me all I wanted to know.
He could explain why Yig, the half-human father of serpents, is a
shunned and feared subject in central Oklahoma, and why old settlers
shiver at the secret Indian orgies which make the autumn days and
nights hideous with the ceaseless beating of tom-toms in lonely places.

It was with the scent of a hound on the trail that I went to Guthrie,
for I had spent many years collecting data on the evolution of
serpent-worship among the Indians. I had always felt, from well defined
undertones of legend and archeology, that great Quetzalcoatl--benign
snake-god of the Mexicans--had had an older and darker prototype;
and during recent months I had well-nigh proved it in a series of
researches stretching from Guatemala to the Oklahoma plains. But
everything was tantalizing and incomplete, for above the border the
cult of the snake was hedged about by fear and furtiveness.

Now it appeared that a new and copious source of data was about to
dawn, and I sought the head of the asylum with an eagerness I did not
try to cloak. Dr. McNeill was a small, clean-shaven man of somewhat
advanced years, and I saw at once from his speech and manner that he
was a scholar of no mean attainments in many branches outside his
profession. Grave and doubtful when I first made known my errand, his
face grew thoughtful as he carefully scanned my credentials and the
letter of introduction which a kindly old ex-Indian agent had given me.

"So you've been studying the Yig-legend, eh?" he reflected
sententiously. "I know that many of our Oklahoma ethnologists have
tried to connect it with Quetzalcoatl, but I don't think any of them
have traced the intermediate steps so well. You've done remarkable work
for a man as young as you seem to be, and you certainly deserve all the
data we can give.

"I don't suppose old Major Moore or any of the others told you what
it is I have here. They don't like to talk about it, and neither do
I. It is very tragic and very horrible, but that is all. I refuse to
consider it anything super-natural. There's a story about it that I'll
tell you after you see it--a devilish sad story, but one that I won't
call magic. It merely shows the potency that belief has over some
people. I'll admit there are times when I feel a shiver that's more
than physical, but in daylight I set all that down to nerves. I'm not a
young fellow any more, alas!

"To come to the point, the thing I have is what you might call a
victim of Yig's curse--a physically living victim. We don't let the
bulk of the nurses see it, although most of them know it's here. There
are just two steady old chaps whom I let feed it and clean out its
quarters--used to be three, but good old Stevens passed on a few years
ago. I suppose I'll have to break in a new group pretty soon; for the
thing doesn't seem to age or change much, and we old boys can't last
forever. Maybe the ethics of the near future will let us give it a
merciful release, but it's hard to tell.

"Did you see that single ground-glass basement window over in the east
wing when you came up the drive? That's where it is. I'll take you
there myself now. You needn't make any comment. Just look through the
movable panel in the door and thank God the light isn't any stronger.
Then I'll tell you the story--or as much as I've been able to piece
together."

We walked downstairs very quietly, and did not talk as we threaded the
corridors of the seemingly deserted basement. Dr. McNeill unlocked
a gray-painted steel door, but it was only a bulkhead leading to a
further stretch of hallway. At length he paused before a door marked
B 116, opened a small observation panel which he could use only by
standing on tiptoe, and pounded several times upon the painted metal,
as if to arouse the occupant, whatever it might be.

A faint stench came from the aperture as the doctor unclosed it, and I
fancied his pounding elicited a kind of low, hissing response. Finally
he motioned me to replace him at the peep-hole, and I did so with a
causeless and increasing tremor. The barred, ground-glass window, close
to the earth outside, admitted only a feeble and uncertain pallor; and
I had to look into the malodorous den for several seconds before I
could see what was crawling and wriggling about on the straw-covered
floor, emitting every now and then a weak and vacuous hiss. Then
the shadowed outlines began to take shape, and I perceived that the
squirming entity bore some remote resemblance to a human form laid flat
on its belly. I clutched at the door-handle for support as I tried to
keep from fainting.

The moving object was almost of human size, and entirely devoid of
clothing. It was absolutely hairless, and its tawny-looking back seemed
subtly squamous in the dim, ghoulish light. Around the shoulders it was
rather speckled and brownish, and the head was very curiously flat.
As it looked up to hiss at me I saw that the beady little black eyes
were damnably anthropoid, but I could not bear to study them long. They
fastened themselves on me with a horrible persistence, so that I closed
the panel gaspingly and left the creature to wriggle about unseen in
its matted straw and spectral twilight. I must have reeled a bit, for
I saw that the doctor was gently holding my arm as he guided me away.
I was stuttering over and over again: "B-but for God's sake, _what is
it_?"

[Illustration: "B-but--for God's sake what is it?"]

Dr. McNeill told me the story in his private office as I sprawled
opposite him in an easy-chair. The gold and crimson of late afternoon
changed to the violet of early dusk, but still I sat awed and
motionless. I resented every ring of the telephone and every whir of
the buzzer, and I could have cursed the nurses and interns whose knocks
now and then summoned the doctor briefly to the outer office. Night
came, and I was glad my host switched on all the lights. Scientist
though I was, my zeal for research was half forgotten amid such
breathless ecstasies of fright as a small boy might feel when whispered
witch-tales go the rounds of the chimney-corner.

       *       *       *       *       *

It seems that Yig, the snake-god of the central plains
tribes--presumably the primal source of the more southerly Quetzalcoatl
or Kukulcan--was an odd, half-anthropomorphic devil of highly arbitrary
and capricious nature. He was not wholly evil, and was usually
quite well-disposed toward those who gave proper respect to him and
his children, the serpents; but in the autumn he became abnormally
ravenous, and had to be driven away by means of suitable rites. That
was why the tom-toms in the Pawnee, Wichita, and Caddo country pounded
ceaselessly week in and week out in August, September, and October;
and why the medicine-men made strange noises with rattles and whistles
curiously like those of the Aztecs and Mayas.

Yig's chief trait was a relentless devotion to his children--a devotion
so great that the redskins almost feared to protect themselves from the
venomous rattlesnakes which thronged the region. Frightful clandestine
tales hinted of his vengeance upon mortals who flouted him or wreaked
harm upon his wriggling progeny; his chosen method being to turn his
victim, after suitable tortures, to a spotted snake.

In the old days of the Indian Territory, the doctor went on, there was
not quite so much secrecy about Yig. The plains tribes, less cautious
than the desert nomads and Pueblos, talked quite freely of their
legends and autumn ceremonies with the first Indian agents, and let
considerable of the lore spread out through the neighboring regions
of white settlement. The great fear came in the land-rush days of
'eighty-nine, when some extraordinary incidents had been rumored, and
the rumors sustained, by what seemed to be hideously tangible proofs.
Indians said that the new white men did not know how to get on with
Yig, and afterward the settlers came to take that theory at face value.
Now no old-timer in middle Oklahoma, white or red, could be induced to
breathe a word about the snake-god except in vague hints. Yet after
all, the doctor added with almost needless emphasis, the only truly
authenticated horror had been a thing of pitiful tragedy rather than of
bewitchment. It was all very material and cruel--even that last phase
which had caused so much dispute.

Dr. McNeill paused and cleared his throat before getting down
to his special story, and I felt a tingling sensation as when a
theater curtain rises. The thing had begun when Walker Davis and
his wife Audrey left Arkansas to settle in the newly opened public
lands in the spring of 1889, and the end had come in the country
of the Wichitas--north of the Washita River, in what is at present
Caddo County. There is a small village called Binger there now, and
the railway goes through; but otherwise the place is less changed
than other parts of Oklahoma. It is still a section of farms and
ranches--quite productive in these days--since the great oil-fields do
not come very close.

Walker and Audrey had come from Franklin County in the Ozarks with
a canvas-topped wagon, two mules, an ancient and useless dog called
"Wolf," and all their household goods. They were typical hill-folk,
youngish and perhaps a little more ambitious than most, and looked
forward to a life of better returns for their hard work than they had
had in Arkansas. Both were lean, rawboned specimens; the man tall,
sandy and gray-eyed, and the woman short and rather dark, with a black
straightness of hair suggesting a slight Indian admixture.

In general, there was very little of distinction about them, and but
for one thing their annals might not have differed from those of
thousands of other pioneers who flocked into the new country at that
time. That thing was Walker's almost epileptic fear of snakes, which
some laid to prenatal causes, and some said came from a dark prophecy
about his end with which an old Indian squaw had tried to scare him
when he was small. Whatever the cause, the effect was marked indeed;
for despite his strong general courage the very mention of a snake
would cause him to grow faint and pale, while the sight of even a tiny
specimen would produce a shock sometimes bordering on a convulsion
seizure.

The Davises started out early in the year, in the hope of being on
their new land for the spring plowing. Travel was slow; for the roads
were bad in Arkansas, while in the Territory there were great stretches
of rolling hills and red, sandy barrens without any roads whatever.
As the terrain grew flatter, the change from their native mountains
depressed them more, perhaps, than they realized; but they found the
people at the Indian agencies very affable, while most of the settled
Indians seemed friendly and civil. Now and then they encountered a
fellow-pioneer, with whom crude pleasantries and expressions of amiable
rivalry were generally exchanged.

Owing to the season, there were not many snakes in evidence, so Walker
did not suffer from his special temperamental weakness. In the earlier
stages of the journey, too, there were no Indian snake-legends to
trouble him; for the transplanted tribes from the southeast do not
share the wilder beliefs of their western neighbors. As fate would have
it, it was a white man at Okmulgee in the Creek country who gave the
Davises the first hint of the Yig beliefs; a hint which had a curiously
fascinating effect on Walker, and caused him to ask questions very
freely after that.

Before long Walker's fascination had developed into a bad case of
fright. He took the most extraordinary precautions at each of the
nightly camps, always clearing away whatever vegetation he found, and
avoiding stony places whenever he could. Every clump of stunted bushes
and every cleft in the great, slab-like rocks seemed to him now to hide
malevolent serpents, while every human figure not obviously part of a
settlement or emigrant train seemed to him a potential snake-god till
nearness had proved the contrary. Fortunately no troublesome encounters
came at this stage to shake his nerves still further.

As they approached the Kickapoo country they found it harder and harder
to avoid camping near rocks. Finally it was no longer possible, and
poor Walker was reduced to the puerile expedient of droning some of the
rustic anti-snake charms he had learned in his boyhood. Two or three
times a snake was really glimpsed, and these sights did not help the
sufferer in his efforts to preserve composure.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the twenty-second evening of the journey a savage wind made it
imperative, for the sake of the mules, to camp in as sheltered a spot
as possible; and Audrey persuaded her husband to take advantage of
a cliff which rose uncommonly high above the dried bed of a former
tributary of the Canadian River. He did not like the rocky cast of the
place, but allowed himself to be overruled this once; leading the
animals sullenly toward the protecting slope, which the nature of the
ground would not allow the wagon to approach.

Audrey, examining the rocks near the wagon, meanwhile noticed a
singular sniffing on the part of the feeble old dog. Seizing a rifle,
she followed his lead, and presently thanked her stars that she had
forestalled Walker in her discovery. For there, snugly nested in the
gap between two boulders, was a sight it would have done him no good
to see. Visible only as one convoluted expanse, but perhaps comprising
as many as three or four separate units, was a mass of lazy wriggling
which could not be other than a brood of new-born rattlesnakes.

Anxious to save Walker from a trying shock, Audrey did not hesitate to
act, but took the gun firmly by the barrel and brought the butt down
again and again upon the writhing objects. Her own sense of loathing
was great, but it did not amount to a real fear. Finally she saw that
her task was done, and turned to cleanse the improvised bludgeon in the
red sand and dry, dead grass near by. She must, she reflected, cover
the nest up before Walker got back from tethering the mules. Old Wolf,
tottering relic of mixed shepherd and coyote ancestry that he was, had
vanished, and she feared he had gone to fetch his master.

Footsteps at that instant proved her fear well founded. A second more,
and Walker had seen everything. Audrey made a move to catch him if
he should faint, but he did no more than sway. Then the look of pure
fright on his bloodless face turned slowly to something like mingled
awe and anger, and he began to upbraid his wife in trembling tones.

"Gawd's sake, Aud, but why'd ye go for to do that? Hain't ye heerd all
the things they've ben tellin' about this snake-devil Yig? Ye'd ought
to a told me, and we'd a moved on. Don't ye know they's a devil-god
what gets even if ye hurts his children? What for d'ye think the Injuns
all dances and beats their drums in the fall about? This land's under a
curse, I tell ye--nigh every soul we've a-talked to sence we come in's
said the same. Yig rules here, an' he comes out every fall for to git
his victims and turn 'em into snakes. Why, Aud, they won't none of them
Injuns acrost the Canayjin kill a snake for love nor money!

"Gawd knows what ye done to yourself, gal, a-stompin' out a hull brood
o' Yig's chillen. He'll git ye, sure, sooner er later, unlessen I kin
buy a charm offen some o' the Injun medicine-men. He'll git ye, Aud, as
sure's they's a Gawd in heaven--he'll come outa the night and turn ye
into a crawlin' spotted snake!"

All the rest of the journey Walker kept up the frightened reproofs
and prophecies. They crossed the Canadian near Newcastle, and soon
afterward met with the first of the real plains Indians they had
seen--a party of blanketed Wichitas, whose leader talked freely
under the spell of the whisky offered him, and taught poor Walker a
long-winded protective charm against Yig in exchange for a quart bottle
of the same inspiring fluid. By the end of the week the chosen site in
the Wichita country was reached, and the Davises made haste to trace
their boundaries and perform the spring plowing before even beginning
the construction of a cabin.

The region was flat, drearily windy, and sparse of natural vegetation,
but promised great fertility under cultivation. Occasional outcroppings
of granite diversified a soil of decomposed red sandstone, and here
and there a great flat rock would stretch along the surface of the
ground like a man-made floor. There seemed to be very few snakes, or
possible dens for them, so Audrey at last persuaded Walker to build the
one-room cabin over a vast, smooth slab of exposed stone. With such
a flooring and with a good-sized fireplace the wettest weather might
be defied--though it soon became evident that dampness was no salient
quality of the district. Logs were hauled in the wagon from the nearest
belt of woods, many miles toward the Wichita Mountains.

Walker built his wide-chimneyed cabin and crude barn with the aid of
some of the other settlers, though the nearest one was over a mile
away. In turn, he helped his helpers at similar house-raisings, so that
many ties of friendship sprang up between the new neighbors. There was
no town worthy the name nearer than El Reno, on the railway thirty
miles or more to the northeast; and before many weeks had passed, the
people of the section had become very cohesive despite the wideness
of their scattering. The Indians, a few of whom had begun to settle
down on ranches, were for the most part harmless, though somewhat
quarrelsome when fired by the liquid stimulation which found its way to
them despite all government bans.

Of all the neighbors the Davises found Joe and Sally Compton, who
likewise hailed from Arkansas, the most helpful and congenial. Sally is
still alive, known now as Grandma Compton; and her son Clyde, then an
infant in arms, has become one of the leading men of the state. Sally
and Audrey used to visit each other often, for their cabins were only
two miles apart; and in the long spring and summer afternoons they
exchanged many a tale of old Arkansas and many a rumor about the new
country.

Sally was very sympathetic about Walker's weakness regarding snakes,
but perhaps did more to aggravate than cure the parallel nervousness
which Audrey was acquiring through his incessant praying and
prophesying about the curse of Yig. She was uncommonly full of gruesome
snake stories, and produced a direfully strong impression with her
acknowledged masterpiece--the tale of a man in Scott County who had
been bitten by a whole horde of rattlers at once, and had swelled so
monstrously from poison that his body had finally burst with a pop.
Needless to say, Audrey did not repeat this anecdote to her husband,
and she implored the Comptons to beware of starting it on the rounds
of the countryside. It is to Joe's and Sally's credit that they heeded
this plea with the utmost fidelity.

Walker did his corn-planting early, and in midsummer improved his time
by harvesting a fair crop of the native grass of the region. With the
help of Joe Compton he dug a well which gave a moderate supply of very
good water, though he planned to sink an artesian later on. He did not
run into many serious snake scares, and made his land as inhospitable
as possible for wriggling visitors. Every now and then he rode over to
the cluster of thatched conical huts which formed the main village of
the Wichitas, and talked long with the old men and shamans about the
snake-god and how to nullify his wrath. Charms were always ready in
exchange for whisky, but much of the information he got was far from
reassuring.

Yig was a great god. He was bad medicine. He did not forget things.
In the autumn his children were hungry and wild, and Yig was hungry
and wild, too. All the tribes made medicine against Yig when the corn
harvest came. They gave him some corn, and danced in proper regalia to
the sound of whistle, rattle, and drum. They kept the drums pounding to
drive Yig away, and called down the aid of Tiráwa, whose children men
are, even as the snakes are Yig's children. It was bad that the squaw
of Davis killed the children of Yig. Let Davis say the charms many
times when the corn harvest comes. Yig is Yig. Yig is a great god.

By the time the corn harvest did come, Walker had succeeded in getting
his wife into a deplorably jumpy state. His prayers and borrowed
incantations came to be a nuisance; and when the autumn rites of the
Indians began, there was always a distant wind-borne pounding of
tom-toms to lend an added background of the sinister. It was maddening
to have the muffled clatter always stealing over the wide red plains.
Why would it never stop? Day and night, week on week, it was always
going in exhaustless relays, as persistently as the red dusty winds
that carried it. Audrey loathed it more than her husband did, for he
saw in it a compensating element of protection. It was with this sense
of a mighty, intangible bulwark against evil that he got in his corn
crop and prepared cabin and stable for the coming winter.

       *       *       *       *       *

The autumn was abnormally warm, and except for their primitive cookery
the Davises found scant use for the stone fireplace Walker had built
with such care. Something in the unnaturalness of the hot dust-clouds
preyed on the nerves of all the settlers, but most of all on Audrey's
and Walker's. The notions of a hovering snake-curse and the weird,
endless rhythm of the distant Indian drums formed a bad combination
which any added element of the bizarre went far to render utterly
unendurable.

Notwithstanding this strain, several festive gatherings were held at
one or another of the cabins after the crops were reaped: keeping
naively alive in modernity those curious rites of the harvest-home
which are as old as human agriculture itself. Lafayette Smith, who
came from southern Missouri and had a cabin about three miles east
of Walker's, was a very passable fiddler; and his tunes did much to
make the celebrants forget the monotonous beating of the distant
tom-toms. Then Hallowe'en drew near, and the settlers planned another
frolic--this time, had they but known it, of a lineage older than even
agriculture: the dread Witch-Sabbath of the primal pre-Aryans, kept
alive through ages in the midnight blackness of secret woods, and
still hinting at vague terrors under its latter-day mask of comedy and
lightness. Hallowe'en was to fall on a Thursday, and the neighbors
agreed to gather for their first revel at the Davis cabin.

It was on that thirty-first of October that the warm spell broke.
The morning was gray and leaden, and by noon the incessant winds had
changed from searingness to rawness. People shivered all the more
because they were not prepared for the chill, and Walker Davis's old
dog Wolf dragged himself wearily indoors to a place beside the hearth.
But the distant drums still thumped on, nor were the white citizenry
less inclined to pursue their chosen rites. As early as four in the
afternoon the wagons began to arrive at Walker's cabin; and in the
evening, after a memorable barbecue, Lafayette Smith's fiddle inspired
a very fair-sized company to great feats of saltatory grotesqueness in
the one good-sized but crowded room. The younger folk indulged in the
amiable inanities proper to the season, and now and then old Wolf would
howl with doleful and spine-tickling ominousness at some especially
spectral strain from Lafayette's squeaky violin--a device he had never
heard before. Mostly, though, this battered veteran slept through
the merriment; for he was past the age of active interests and lived
largely in his dreams. Tom and Jennie Rigby had brought their collie
Zeke along, but the canines did not fraternize. Zeke seemed strangely
uneasy over something, and nosed around curiously all the evening.

Audrey and Walker made a fine couple on the floor, and Grandma Compton
still likes to recall her impression of their dancing that night.
Their worries seemed forgotten for the nonce, and Walker was shaved
and trimmed into a surprizing degree of spruceness. By ten o'clock
all hands were healthily tired, and the guests began to depart family
by family with many handshakings and bluff assurances of what a fine
time everybody had had. Tom and Jennie thought Zeke's eery howls as he
followed them to their wagon were marks of regret at having to go home;
though Audrey said it must be the far-away tom-toms which annoyed him,
for the distant thumping was surely ghastly enough after the merriment
within.

The night was bitterly cold, and for the first time Walker put a great
log in the fireplace and banked it with ashes to keep it smoldering
till morning. Old Wolf dragged himself within the ruddy glow and
lapsed into his customary coma. Audrey and Walker, too tired to think
of charms or curses, tumbled into the rough pine bed and were asleep
before the cheap alarm-clock on the mantle had ticked out three
minutes. And from far away, the rhythmic pounding of those hellish
tom-toms still pulsed on the chill night-wind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. McNeill paused here and removed his glasses, as if a blurring of
the objective world might make the reminiscent vision clearer. "You'll
soon appreciate," he said, "that I had a great deal of difficulty in
piecing out all that happened after the guests left. There were times,
though--at first--when I was able to make a try at it." After a moment
of silence he went on with the tale.

Audrey had terrible dreams of Yig, who appeared to her in the guise of
Satan as depicted in cheap engravings she had seen. It was, indeed,
from an absolute ecstasy of nightmare that she started suddenly awake
to find Walker already conscious and sitting up in bed. He seemed to be
listening intently to something, and silenced her with a whisper when
she began to ask what had roused him.

"Hark, Aud!" he breathed. "Don't ye hear somethin' a-singin' and
buzzin' and rustlin'? D'ye reckon it's the fall crickets?"

Certainly, there was distinctly audible within the cabin such a sound
as he had described. Audrey tried to analyze it, and was impressed with
some element at once horrible and familiar, which hovered just outside
the rim of her memory. And beyond it all, waking a hideous thought, the
monotonous beating of the distant tom-toms came incessantly across the
black plains on which a cloudy half-moon had set.

"Walker--s'pose it's--the--the--curse o' Yig?"

She could feel him tremble.

"No, gal, I don't reckon he comes thataway. He's shapen like a man,
except ye look at him clost. That's what Chief Gray Eagle says. This
here's some varmints come in outen the cold--not crickets, I calc'late,
but summat like 'em. I'd orter git up and' stomp 'em out afore they
make much headway or git at the cupboard."

He rose, felt for the lantern that hung within easy reach, and rattled
the tin match-box nailed to the wall beside it. Audrey sat up in bed
and watched the flare of the match grow into the steady glow of the
lantern. Then, as their eyes began to take in the whole of the room,
the crude rafters shook with the frenzy of their simultaneous shriek.
For the flat, rocky floor, revealed in the new-born illumination, was
one seething brown-speckled mass of wriggling rattlesnakes, slithering
toward the fire, and even now turning their loathsome heads to menace
the fright-blasted lantern-bearer.

It was only for an instant that Audrey saw the things. The reptiles
were of every size, of uncountable numbers, and apparently of several
varieties; and even as she looked, two or three of them reared their
heads as if to strike at Walker. She did not faint--it was Walker's
crash to the floor that extinguished the lantern and plunged her into
blackness. He had not screamed a second time--fright had paralyzed
him, and he fell as if shot by a silent arrow from no mortal's bow. To
Audrey the entire world seemed to whirl about fantastically, mingling
with the nightmare from which she had started.

Voluntary motion of any sort was impossible, for will and the sense of
reality had left her. She fell back inertly on her pillow, hoping that
she would wake soon. No actual sense of what had happened penetrated
her mind for some time. Then, little by little, the suspicion that she
was really awake began to dawn on her; and she was convulsed with a
mounting blend of panic and grief which made her long to shriek out
despite the inhibiting spell which kept her mute.

Walker was gone, and she had not been able to help him. He had died of
snakes, just as the old witch-woman had predicted when he was a little
boy. Poor Wolf had not been able to help, either--probably he had not
even awaked from his senile stupor. And now the crawling things must be
coming for her, writhing closer and closer every moment in the dark,
perhaps even now twining slipperily about the bed-posts and oozing up
over the coarse woolen blankets. Unconsciously she crept under the
clothes and trembled.

It must be the curse of Yig. He had sent his monstrous children
on All-Hallows' Night, and they had taken Walker first. Why was
that--wasn't he innocent enough? Why not come straight for her--hadn't
she killed those little rattlers alone? Then she thought of the curse's
form as told by the Indians. She wouldn't be killed--just turned to a
spotted snake. Ugh! So she would be like those things she had glimpsed
on the floor--those things which Yig had sent to get her and enroll her
among their number! She tried to mumble a charm that Walker had taught
her, but found she could not utter a single sound.

The noisy ticking of the alarm-clock sounded above the maddening beat
of the distant tom-toms. The snakes were taking a long time--did they
mean to delay on purpose to play on her nerves? Every now and then she
thought she felt a stealthy, insidious pressure on the bedclothes, but
each time it turned out to be only the automatic twitchings of her
overwrought nerves. The clock ticked on in the dark, and a change came
slowly over her thoughts.

Those snakes _couldn't_ have taken so long! They couldn't be Yig's
messengers after all, but just natural rattlers that were nested below
the rock and had been drawn there by the fire. They weren't coming
for her, perhaps--perhaps they had sated themselves on poor Walker.
Where were they now? Gone? Coiled by the fire? Still crawling over the
prone corpse of their victim? The clock ticked, and the distant drums
throbbed on.

At the thought of her husband's body lying there in the pitch blackness
a thrill of purely physical horror passed over Audrey. That story of
Sally Compton's about the man back in Scott County! He, too, had been
bitten by a whole bunch of rattlesnakes, and what had happened to him?
The poison had rotted the flesh and swelled the whole corpse, and in
the end the bloated thing had _burst_ horribly--burst horribly with a
detestable _popping_ noise. Was that what was happening to Walker down
there on the rock floor? Instinctively she felt that she had begun to
_listen_ for something too terrible even to name to herself.

The clock ticked on, keeping a kind of mocking, sardonic time with
the far-off drumming that the night-wind brought. She wished it were
a striking clock, so that she could know how long this eldritch vigil
must last. She cursed the toughness of fiber that kept her from
fainting, and wondered what sort of relief the dawn could bring, after
all. Probably neighbors would pass--no doubt somebody would call--would
they find her still sane? Was she still sane now?

Morbidly listening, Audrey all at once became aware of something
which she had to verify with every effort of her will before she
could believe it; and which, once verified, she did not know whether
to welcome or dread. _The distant beating of the Indian tom-toms had
ceased._ They had always maddened her--but had not Walker regarded them
as a bulwark against nameless evil from outside the universe? What were
some of those things he had repeated to her in whispers after talking
with Gray Eagle and the Wichita medicine-men?

She did not relish this new and sudden silence, after all! There was
something sinister about it. The loud-ticking clock seemed abnormal in
its new loneliness. Capable at last of conscious motion, she shook the
covers from her face and looked into the darkness toward the window. It
must have cleared after the moon set, for she saw the square aperture
distinctly against the background of stars.

Then without warning came that shocking, unutterable sound--ugh!--that
dull, putrid _pop_ of cleft skin and escaping poison in the dark.
God!--Sally's story--that obscene stench, and this gnawing, clawing
silence! It was too much. The bonds of muteness snapped, and the black
night waxed reverberant with Audrey's screams of stark unbridled frenzy.

Consciousness did not pass away with the shock. How merciful if only
it had! Amidst the echoes of her shrieking Audrey still saw the
star-sprinkled square of window ahead, and heard the doom-boding
ticking of that frightful clock. Did she hear another sound? Was
that square window still a perfect square? She was in no condition
to weigh the evidence of her senses or distinguish between fact and
hallucination.

No--that window was _not_ a perfect square. _Something had encroached
on the lower edge._ Nor was the ticking of the clock the only sound in
the room. There was, beyond dispute, a heavy breathing neither her own
nor poor Wolf's. Wolf slept very silently, and his wakeful wheezing was
unmistakable. Then Audrey saw against the stars the black, demoniac
silhouette of something anthropoid--the undulant bulk of a gigantic
head and shoulders fumbling slowly toward her.

"Y'aaaah! Y'aaaah! Go away! Go away! Go away, snake-devil! Go 'way,
Yig! I didn't want to kill 'em--I was feared he'd be scairt of 'em.
Don't, Yig, don't! I didn't go for to hurt yore chillen--don't come
nigh me--don't change me into no spotted snake!"

But the half-formless head and shoulders only lurched onward toward the
bed, very silently.

Everything snapped at once inside Audrey's head, and in a second she
had turned from a cowering child to a raging madwoman. She knew where
the ax was--hung against the wall on those pegs near the lantern. It
was within easy reach, and she could find it in the dark. Before she
was conscious of anything further it was in her hands, and she was
creeping toward the foot of the bed--toward the monstrous head and
shoulders that every moment groped their way nearer. Had there been any
light, the look on her face would not have been pleasant to see.

"Take _that_, you! And _that_, and _that_, and _that_!"

She was laughing shrilly now, and her cackles mounted higher as she saw
that the starlight beyond the window was yielding to the dim prophetic
pallor of coming dawn.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. McNeill wiped the perspiration from his forehead and put on his
glasses again. I waited for him to resume, and as he kept silent I
spoke softly.

"She lived? She was found? Was it ever explained?"

The doctor cleared his throat.

"Yes--she lived, in a way. And it was explained. I told you there was
no bewitchment--only cruel, pitiful, material horror."

It was Sally Compton who had made the discovery. She had ridden over to
the Davis cabin the next afternoon to talk over the party with Audrey,
and had seen no smoke from the chimney. That was queer. It had turned
very warm again, yet Audrey was usually cooking something at that hour.
The mules were making hungry-sounding noises in the barn, and there was
no sign of old Wolf sunning himself in the accustomed spot by the door.

Altogether, Sally did not like the look of the place, so was very timid
and hesitant as she dismounted and knocked. She got no answer, but
waited some time before trying the crude door of split logs. The lock,
it appeared, was unfastened; and she slowly pushed her way in. Then,
perceiving what was there, she reeled back, gasped, and clung to the
jamb to preserve her balance.

A terrible odor had welled out as she opened the door, but that was
not what had stunned her. It was what she had seen. For within that
shadowy cabin monstrous things had happened and three shocking objects
remained on the floor to awe and baffle the beholder.

Near the burned-out fireplace was the great dog--purple decay on the
skin left bare by mange and old age, and the whole carcass burst by the
puffing effect of rattlesnake poison. It must have been bitten by a
veritable legion of the reptiles.

To the right of the door was the ax-hacked remnant of what had
been a man--clad in a nightshirt, and with the shattered bulk of a
lantern clenched in one hand. _He was totally free from any sign of
snake-bite._ Near him lay the ensanguined ax, carelessly discarded.

And wriggling flat on the floor was a loathsome, vacant-eyed thing that
had been a woman, but was now only a mute, mad caricature. All that
this thing could do was to hiss, and hiss, and hiss.

       *       *       *       *       *

Both the doctor and I were brushing cold drops from our foreheads by
this time. He poured something from a flask on his desk, took a nip,
and handed another glass to me. I could only suggest tremulously and
stupidly:

"So Walker had only fainted that first time--the screams roused him,
and the ax did the rest?"

"Yes." Dr. McNeill's voice was low. "But he met his death from snakes
just the same. It was his fear working in two ways--it made him faint,
and it made him fill his wife with the wild stories that caused her to
strike out when she thought she saw the snake-devil."

I thought for a moment.

"And Audrey--wasn't it queer how the curse of Yig seemed to work itself
out on her? I suppose the impression of hissing snakes had been fairly
ground into her."

"Yes. There were lucid spells at first, but they got to be fewer and
fewer. Her hair came white at the roots as it grew, and later began to
fall out. The skin grew blotchy, and when she died----"

I interrupted with a start.

"_Died?_ Then what was that--that thing downstairs?"

McNeill spoke gravely.

"_That_ is what was born to her three-quarters of a year afterward.
There were three more of them--two were even worse--but this is the
only, one that lived."