hand than you think. The boundaries of the seen and the unseen are sometimes interchangeable."
Recalling the malevolent phantom, I felt a peculiar disquietude as I listened to his words. An hour before, his statement would have impressed me as mere theorizing, but now it assumed an ominous and terrifying significance.
"What makes you think I have had no experience of the occult?" I asked.
"Your stories hardly show anything of the kind—anything factual or personal. They are all palpably made up. When you've argued with a ghost, oi watched the ghouls at mealtime, or fought with an incubus, or suckled a vampire, you may achieve some genius characterization and color along such lines."
For reasons that should be fairly obvious, I had not intended to tell anyone of the unbelievable thing at Toleman's. Now, with a singular mixture of emotions, of compulsive, eery terrors and desire to refute the animal versions of Cyprian, I found myself describing the phantom.
He listened with an inexpressive look, as if his thoughts were occupied with other matters than my story. Then, when I had finished:
"You are becoming more psychic than I imagined. Was your apparition anything like one of these?"
With the last words, he lifted the sheet of burlap from the muffled group of figures beside which he had been standing.
I cried out involuntarily with the shock of that appalling revelation, and almost tottered as I stepped back.
Before me, in a monstrous semicircle, were seven creatures who might all have been modeled from the gargoyle that had confronted me across the folio of Goya drawings. Even in several that were still amorphous or incomplete, Cyprian had conveyed with a damnable art the peculiar mingling of primal bestiality and mortuary putrescence that had signalized the phantom. The seven monsters had closed in on a cowering, naked girl, and were all clutching foully toward her with their hyena claws. The stark, frantic, insane terror on the face of the girl, and the slavering hunger of her assailants, were alike unbearable. The group was a masterpiece, in its consummate power of technique—but a masterpiece that inspired loathing rather than admiration. And following my recent experience, the sight of it affected me with indescribable alarm. It seemed to me that I had gone astray from the normal, familiar world into a land of detestable mystery, of prodigious and unnatural menace.
Held by an abhorrent fascination, it was hard for me to wrench my eyes away from the figure-piece. At last I turned from it to Cyprian himself. He was regarding me with a cryptic air, beneath which I suspected a covert gloating.
"How do you like my little pets?" he inquired. "I am going to call the composition 'The Hunters from Beyond.'"
Before I could answer, a woman suddenly appeared from behind the Chinese screen. I saw that she was the model for the girl in the unfinished group. Evidently she had been dressing, and she was now ready to leave, for she wore a tailored suit and a smart toque. She was beautiful, in a dark, semi-Latin fashion; but her mouth was sullen and reluctant, and her wide, liquid eyes were wells of strange terror as she gazed at Cyprian, myself and the uncovered statue-piece.
Cyprian did not introduce me. He and the girl talked together in low tones for a minute or
