10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 61: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CURSE OF THE BLEEDING STONE—————————59 spirit leaves the body?” Kerrigan grinned openly. “They never leave,’”’ Whitten raged. “Do you know why I ran from that stone this afternoon? Why I urged you to run also? Because that wisp of fog was seeking you or me—to take possession of us. Every Druid altar stone holds the souls of the dead priests. They never died—not entire- ly. Wait, you’ll see.” Kerrigan dropped into a chair and crossed his legs. He chewed on the butt of the cigar which Cotter had given him. “It will take an awful lot of proof, Mr. Whitten. I’m Irish and maybe I got a wee bit respect for banshees and the like, but not Druids. Hardly ever heard of ’em, in fact, so they can’t scare me. Now let’s talk about Benson —and Keith. Something more sub- stantial than ghosts. I want to know— Hey, where is that cold breeze com- ing from? It just passed across my face. Is there a window open or—” T THAT moment the lights winked out. The blackout was perfect. Kerrigan couldn’t see beyond his nose. He got up and one hand dropped to the butt of his gun. He be- gan moving silently toward the door and reached for his flashlight at the same time. Before he could unlimber the flash, something came hurtling across the room at him, as though the attacker could penetrate the pitch darkness. Two hands grabbed at his shoulders, transferred themselves to his throat, and Kerrigan was forced back—back —until he was against the wall. He made an efiort to grab his gun, but one of those fists darted down and connected with a side hand blow that paralyzed Kerrigan’s whole arm. He heard his gun hit the floor far across the room. Then he settled down to do some fighting on his own. He used his left hand only because the right was all but useless. His first punch connected with a soft stomach and drew a wheeze from the attacker. But the two hands were laced around his throat again. The punishment was grueling and he knew that in a short time he’d pass into unconsciousness from which he’d probably never awaken. Judging his next blow from the spot where the first had landed, he struck his knuckles against the side of some- one’s head. That hurt him about as much as it did his opponent. He also felt something odd around that tem- ple. It fell like a garland of leaves. His knees wobbled and he lashed out again, this time doing some real damage because the fingers around his throat loosened. He wrenched himself free. Something whizzed down. A blade slashed through the shoulder of his coat and lacerated the flesh, but not deeply. Yet that knife thrust had undoubt- edly been aimed at his heart. He had a vivid recollection of Benson, sprawled out on the sacrificial altar, and fine beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. No further attack came. He whipped out his flash, pressed the switch and the first thing he saw was Mary Lee, on the floor. He rushed to her side. Her pulse was strong and steady. Nothing to worry about there. She’d simply fainted. He swept the room with the torch again. It circled Whitten, who was pressed in a far corner of the room with his arms raised as if to cover his face. He was very white and his eyes bulged in terror. But what made Kerrigan gasp was the garland of leaves draped around his temple. He recalled feeling those on the head of his attacker, and with long strides he stepped up to Whitten. ‘What was the idea?” he demand- ed. “Talk, Whitten. This isn’t a picnic any more.” “I don’t know what you mean,” Whitten protested feebly. “I—I’ve had a dreadful experience. When the lights went out, there was somebody standing right in back of me. I heard CoOnmmicboooks C©