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.