I had to discourage their visits; they were so full of neighborhood gossip and the pettinesses of life, that they always left me feeling out of kilter with the world. After a time I found myself entirely alone with my memo- ries, memories both painful and beau- tiful. It was about this time, while I was so alone, that I began to feel strongly impelled to writing out the experience of that terrible winter.
I did not even try to engage a serv- ant, because I could take care of the house very well myself and the work helped me to keep occupied: it is wise for one who has no real object in life to be busy always. I read a great deal, much that I could not really understand, in Mr. Differdale’s books. The reading filled in hours that would otherwise have been unpleasantly empty. And somehow, the more I read and studied, the more I felt im- pelled to write the story of my experi- ence,
And so at last I started to write down what I remembered of it as best I could, believing that there were those in America who ought to know of that invasion from the dark, with its threat that what has happened once may occur again. It has taken me several months to write these few thousand words, because I have been somehow hindered and have had ob- stacles thrown in my way, time and time again. I do not believe these hindrances are coincidences; I believe something quite the contrary.
{{di|T}HE things that have happened to prevent me from writing have all been explicable from the standpoint of everyday life, I admit. The fact remains that I have had to fight against interruptions ever since I started to write this account. I had what the doctor called ptomaine poi- soning, and had to lie weeks in bed with a trained nurse in attendance, so that afterward I was obliged to fight for sufficient strength to be per- mitted to use my pen. I have found my telephone connections so strange- ly broken or unsatisfactory that day after day I was obliged to go out in person to order provisions. Frequent- ly the grocer could not get my order to me and I had to go out for it my- self. Always there was a new com- plication, explicable on perfectly sound material grounds, but resulting in the same thing invariably, i. e., my physical inability to write or impos- sibility to find time to write.
But now—at last—I have com- pleted my work. I have written to several prominent publishers of fic- tion magazines, asking them to send me the names and addresses of those of their contributors who, in their opinion, know most about occult mat- ters. I have selected one of these writers and have written her. She is to call here and receive this manu- seript, and see to it that it is pub- lished and its warning message spread broadcast.
Today is the day she is to come. I shall wrap my manuscript carefully in oiled paper and lock it into a stout metal box. Neither fire nor water must find their way to it. That there will be attempts made to destroy it, I know, but while I live I shall guard it with my life, and I know that the woman whom I have called te take it in charge realizes to the full the grav- ity of the message and will earry out my wishes in regard to it.
Soppie DELORME.
Differdale House,
June 18th, 1924.
[The End]
Note.—The earlier installments of Miss
Delorme’s remarkable narrative, with a fore-
word by Greye La Spina, were published
in the April and May numbers of WEIRD
TALES. Copies will be mailed to any ad-
dress by the publishers for 25 cents each.
