The Third Macabre Megapack

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

The Third Macabre Megapack
is copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC. Cover art copyright © 2014 by Innovari / Fotolia. All rights reserved.

* * * *

“The Waltz,” by Morris W. Gowen, originally appeared in
All-Story
, September 1913.

“Three at Table,” by W.W. Jacobs, is taken from the collection
The Lady of the Barge
(1911).

“Vera,” by Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, is taken from
Cruel Tales
(1901)

“A Lost Day,” by Edgar Fawcett, is taken from
Eleven Possible Cases
(1891).

“Metzengerstein,” by Edgar Allan Poe, was originally published in the
Saturday Courier
magazine in 1832.

“A Tragedy of High Explosives,” by Brainard Gardner Smith, is taken from
Eleven Possible Cases
(1891).

“The Legend of Tchi-Niu,” by Lafcadio Hearn, is taken from
Some Chinese Ghosts
(1887).

“The Outgoing of the Tide,” by John Buchan, originally appeared in
Atlantic Monthly
, Vol. LXXXIX (1902).

“A Strange Reunion,” by T. G. Atkinson, originally appeared in
The Strand
, April 1893.

“A Work of Accusation,” by Harry How, originally appeared in
The Strand
, June 1893.

“The Night Wire,” by H.F. Arnold, originally appeared in
Weird Tales
, September 1926.

“The Elixir of Life,” by Honoré de Balzac is dated October, 1930 (Paris).

“The Mirror,” by Catulle Mendès, and “The Woman and the Cat,” by Marcel Prevost, are taken from
International Short Stories
: French (1910).

“A Lemon Tree,” by Ouida, is taken from
A Rainy June and Other Stories
(1905).

“Twilight Zone,” by Mary Keegan, originally appeared in
All-Story Weekly
, August 19, 1916.

“Unhallowed Holiday,” by O. M. Cabral, originally appeared in
Weird Tales
, September-October 1941.

“The Eternity of Forms,” by Jack London, is taken from his collection
The Turtles of Tasman
(1916).

“Wolverden Tower,” by Grant Allen, is taken from
Twelve Tales: Select Stories
(1900).

“The Magic Phial,” by J.Y. Ayerman, is taken from
Tales of Other Days
(1830).

“The Haunted Mill,” by Jerome K. Jerome, is taken from the collection
Told After Supper
(1891).

“The Grove of Ashtaroth,” by John Buchan, is taken from the collection
The Moon Endureth: Tales and Fancies
(1912).

“The Well,” by W.W. Jacobs, originally appeared in 1902.

“Death and the Woman, by Gertrude Atherton, originally appeared in
Vanity Fair
(1892).

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Over the last year, our “Megapack” series of ebook anthologies has proved to be one of our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt, Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!).

A NOTE FOR KINDLE READERS

The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your reader.)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

THE MEGAPACK SERIES

The Adventure Megapack

The Baseball Megapack

The Boys’ Adventure Megapack

The Buffalo Bill Megapack

The Christmas Megapack

The Second Christmas Megapack

The Classic American Short Story Megapack

The Classic Humor Megapack

The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

The Cowboy Megapack

The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective Megapack

The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack

The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

The Detective Megapack

The Father Brown Megapack

The Ghost Story Megapack

The Second Ghost Story Megapack

The Third Ghost Story Megapack

The Horror Megapack

The Macabre Megapack

The Second Macabre Megapack

The Martian Megapack

The Military Megapack

The Mummy Megapack

The First Mystery Megapack

The Penny Parker Megapack

The Pulp Fiction Megapack

The Rover Boys Megapack

The Science Fiction Megapack

The Second Science Fiction Megapack

The Third Science Fiction Megapack

The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack

The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack

The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack

The Penny Parker Megapack

The Pinocchio Megapack

The Steampunk Megapack

The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack

The Tom Swift Megapack

The Vampire Megapack

The Victorian Mystery Megapack

The Werewolf Megapack

The Western Megapack

The Second Western Megapack

The Wizard of Oz Megapack

AUTHOR MEGAPACKS

The Edward Bellamy Megapack

The E.F. Benson Megapack

The Second E.F. Benson Megapack

The B.M. Bower Megapack

The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack

The Wilkie Collins Megapack

The Philip K. Dick Megapack

The Jacques Futrelle Megapack

The Randall Garrett Megapack

The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

The G.A. Henty Megapack

The M.R. James Megapack

The Andre Norton Megapack

The H. Beam Piper Megapack

The Rafael Sabatini Megapack

THE WALTZ, by Morris W. Gowen

Toward the end of May, high up in an attic room of a tumble-down house in Paris, a young man stood at the open window. He held a violin and a bow. The last colors of a glorious sunset were fading away into night over the skyline of chimneys and black roofs.

The room was littered by what was left of the musician’s worldly goodsv—very few, for that day a sale had taken place of his poor effects to satisfy the landlord’s demand for rent. All that remained were a few sheets of manuscript-music, a bed, a chair, and some cooking utensils.

It was the end of hope, ambition, of all—complete failure having met the composer’s efforts.

His face showed plainly his suffering for the past month or so. Thin, so as to be only skin and bone, it was of a terrible paleness.

Only his eyes had fire in them. They were awful to see.

His left hand grasped the neck of the violin tightly, and his eyes wandered about the bare room.

Then, as the sky darkened, the first breath of summer crept in at the window. A warm south breeze so soft as to be barely felt, but bringing with it the first tidings of brighter days to those who had felt the long winter’s cold. It was the forewarner of gladness and sunshine.

Unheedingly, the young man lifted the violin to his chin, and his right hand crossed the bow over the strings. He hesitated a minute; then cast a look at the sky, and with a bold sweep of the bow began to play.

It was a waltz, throbbing with passion, full and harmonious. The sad notes of the bass strings in a minor key followed each other to the time, crying sadly like the lament of a lost soul far away.

Ever changing in melody, the waltz carried in it the first four thrilling notes. They crossed, repeated; retreated, and returned.

The first breath of summer caught these notes, carried them out of the attic window over the smoky roofs of Paris, held them, played with them, sent them to the wondering ears of other poor people who lived in attics and in lodgings near by. Women stopped sewing. Children ceased playing. Men dropped their forks and, leaving their evening’s meal, crept on tiptoe to the open windows and listened.

Suddenly the music grew louder, more intense, and the time quickened to madness. Then four long-drawn notes, the same as at the beginning, rang out, and—silence fell.

As the last note was sounded the composer fell dead from the intense effort and the past months of starvation.

The little summer breeze carried with it his grand composition and his soul.

* * * *

A man sat in an office before a richly carved desk. He was a plain-looking business man, fat, in a white waistcoat. Before him on the desk lay much money.

His fat hands, sparkling with valuable rings, gathered up the crisp notes and slipped them into rubber bands, assembling them into packets of ten-thousands. He then got up and carried these packets to a large safe set into the wall of the office, placed them in a drawer, and locked the safe, sighing when he had done, like a person does after lifting a heavy weight.

He then switched on the light and threw open the big office window, looking out onto a busy square filled by hurrying people and vehicles.

He stood at the window some minutes, following with his cunning small eyes the figure of a smart little woman whose figure interested him. As he tried to keep her in sight while she crossed the square the summer breeze crept into the office, touching his cheek with its warm caress.

It held music in its impalpable vapor—that heartrending waltz with its deep chords and simple harmony leading up to the fantastic finale, infernal in its throbbing recklessness and the four simple notes of its sudden ending.

The banker drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, his hand trembling. A chill passed over him.

He hastily closed the window and then sank into a chair. He felt unnerved and weak. His eyes wandered about the office in a troubled way. He grasped the arms of the chair tightly as his gaze became fixed in the direction of the locked safe.

As he did so, the music again caught his ear, holding him breathless in his eagerness not to miss a single note.

The music had full possession of him. It held him in its cruelly irresistible power while, standing before the safe, he saw a poorly clad figure holding a violin to its chin, its pale face looking upward, its right arm swinging the bow.

The figure was no ghost in the banker’s eyes. To him it lived. He could see the bow swing back and forth, and his left foot beat time almost imperceptibly.

He saw the aristocratic profile of the player, as clearly cut as a cameo. The neck and profile brought a vague, far-off memory to the banker.

He was young again. Very young, at his father’s country-place. In his mind he saw the old trees, the lawns, and moonlight nights of June. He saw Lucille, the farmer’s daughter, as she crept in her pretty, bare, white feet over the moonlit grass to meet him under the shadow of the oaks.

He remembered his father’s anger, the hurried departure, the long sea voyage to foreign lands. The return, and the news of Lucille’s trouble and death.

As the music got hold of his heart, these visions became so clear that while the violin sighed, he lived again all that summer of love and passion.

He rose to his feet, trembling; for in that white neck and pure profile he recognized his own flesh and blood.

The waltz was drawing near the end.

As the last four notes filled the office with their magic harmony, the banker held his arms out toward the figure and cried, his voice full of longing:

“Speak! Speak! My son!”

But it was too late.

As the last note left the ghostly violin, the figure of the player vanished.