Black hound of deathHoward, Robert E. (Robert Ervin)
Science
Black hound of death
Howard, Robert E. (Robert Ervin)
Fantasy fiction; Horror tales; Revenge -- Fiction; Werewolves -- Fiction
I struck a match, and stood staring in amazement, while the match
burned down to my fingers. A black man groveled in the dust before
me, his eyes rolling up whitely. I knew him well--one of the negroes
who lived in their tiny log cabins along the fringe of Egypt. He
was spotted and splashed with blood, and I believed he was mortally
wounded. Only abnormal energy rising from frenzied panic could have
enabled him to run as far as he had. Blood jetted from torn veins and
arteries in breast, shoulder and neck, and the wounds were ghastly to
see, great ragged tears, that were never made by bullet or knife. One
ear had been torn from his head, and hung loose, with a great piece of
flesh from the angle of his jaw and neck, as if some gigantic beast
had ripped it out with his fangs.
"What in God's name did this?" I ejaculated as the match went out, and
he became merely an indistinct blob in the darkness below me. "A bear?"
Even as I spoke I knew that no bear had been seen in Egypt for thirty
years.
"_He_ done it!" The thick, sobbing mumble welled up through the
dark. "De white man dat come by my cabin and ask me to guide him to
Mistuh Brent's house. He said he had a tooth-ache, so he had his head
bandaged; but de bandages slipped and I seen his face--he killed me for
seein' him."
"You mean he set dogs on you?" I demanded, for his wounds were such as
I have seen on animals worried by vicious hounds.
"No, suh," whimpered the ebbing voice. "He done it hisself--aaaggghhh!"
The mumble broke in a shriek as he twisted his head, barely visible in
the gloom, and stared back the way he had come. Death must have struck
him in the midst of that scream, for it broke short at the highest
note. He flopped convulsively once, like a dog hit by a truck, and then
lay still.
I strained my eyes into the darkness, and made out a vague shape a few
yards away in the trail. It was erect and tall as a man; it made no
sound.
I opened my mouth to challenge the unknown visitant, but no sound
came. An indescribable chill flowed over me, freezing my tongue to my
palate. It was fear, primitive and unreasoning, and even while I stood
paralyzed I could not understand it, could not guess why that silent,
motionless figure, sinister as it was, should rouse such instinctive
dread.
Then suddenly the figure moved quickly toward me, and I found my voice.
"Who comes there?"
No answer; but the form came on in a rush, and as I groped for a
match, it was almost upon me. I struck the match--with a ferocious
snarl the figure hurled itself against me, the match was struck from
my hand and extinguished, and I felt a sharp pain on the side of my
neck. My gun exploded almost involuntarily and without aim, and its
flash dazzled me, obscuring rather than revealing the tall man-like
figure that struck at me; then with a crashing rush through the trees
my assailant was gone, and I staggered alone on the forest trail.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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