A Weird Novelette of
Supernatural Terrors
The Crawling Death
By P. A. CONNOLLY
The june breeze blowing softly through the open window disturbed the papers on my desk, and also my peace of mind. My office was hot and stuffy, and the cooling zephyr whispered of better things out of doors. With a sigh, I pushed back my chair and ruefully contemplated the un- answered correspondence on my desk.
Across the way my gaze encountered the terra cotta facade and glaring plate glass of a hideous office building. Beyond it, although invisible to the physical eye, were lush meadows and cool woodlands and a beautiful hard dirt road. And my new six cylinder was standing at the curb.
I glanced at my watch. Three o'clock. With my hand at my desk, I hesitated as my correspondence stared back at me accusingly. And then:
"Mr. Hayden, I will take that dictation now," a brisk, peremptory voice declared.
"Don't let me catch you at it," I growled as I banged down the top of my desk. And, snatching up my cap, I dashed past a startled young lady and al- most over a diminutive messenger boy who loomed suddenly in the door-way. He held out a telegram.
"This is where my joy ride is knocked in the head," I exclaimed savagely. Tearing open the envelope, I read the following:
"Will arrive tomorrow ten A. M. to inspect Hedgewood. Meet us. F. S. Avery."
"Us,'" I muttered, "how many is 'us.'" With the message in my hand, I rushed into my partner's room, happy for the excuse the telegram offered.
"Jim," I said hurriedly, "get your hat and come quick. We're going to take a spin into the country."
Jim glanced up out of lazy eyes, his big form sprawling all over his large, easy swivel chair.
"Sorry, old man," he drawled, "but we can't both neglect the business. You
