Marc R. Schorer and August W. Derleth

“ Every soul in the peaceful village was in repose under the pleasing mantle of darkness upon it. The village was like a picture by an artist: all in darkness save a few thin wisps of smoke spiraling from several chimneys and rising until they were caught in the light of the moon streaming down upon the plain from above the castle, then dispersing and vanishing into the crisp air.
In sharp contrast to the calm of the exterior a grim drama was being enacted within the castle. In a large room in one of the turrets of the château the aged Count de Cheveaux sat at a ponderous oaken table. ”

“ The incident bothered the count not a little, and soon he went to his library to consult his store of books on the black arts.
The winter slipped by and spring came. The village of Cheveaux was busy as a hive of bees. From the other side of the mountain towering above the village came the rushing, roaring sound of a great waterfall as it tumbled down the mountainside from crag to crag, from ledge to ledge, until it struck the plain with a great noise and went rushing off to water the fertile fields of the peasants. ”

“ Your imagination plays you pretty tricks; you have killed your son because of them. I, Monsieur, have never left the ether, and yet I have my vengeance. But, Monsieur, if you think for one moment that you have escaped your death tonight, you delude yourself, for die tonight you will!"
The count stared at what had been written and a cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead. ”