The Hairy Ones Shall Dance By GANS T. FIELD _A novel of a hideous, stark horror that struck during a spirit séance--a tale of terror and sudden death, and the frightful thing that laired in the Devil's Croft._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales January, February, March 1938. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] FOREWORD _To Whom It May Concern:_ _Few words are best, as Sir Philip Sidney once wrote in challenging an enemy. The present account will be accepted as a challenge by the vast army of skeptics of which I once made one. Therefore I write it brief and bald. If my story seems unsteady in spots, that is because the hand that writes it still quivers from my recent ordeal._ _Shifting the metaphor from duello to military engagement, this is but the first gun of the bombardment. Even now sworn statements are being prepared by all others who survived the strange and, in some degree, unthinkable adventure I am recounting. After that, every great psychic investigator in the country, as well as some from Europe, will begin researches. I wish that my friends and brother-magicians, Houdini and Thurston, had lived to bear a hand in them._ _I must apologize for the strong admixture of the personal element in my narrative. Some may feel that I err against good taste. My humble argument is that I was not merely an observer, but an actor, albeit a clumsy one, throughout the drama._ _As to the setting forth of matters which many will call impossible, let me smile in advance. Things happen and have always happened, that defy the narrow science of test-tube and formula. I can only say again that I am writing the truth, and that my statement will be supported by my companions in the adventure._ TALBOT WILLS. November 15, 1937. _1. "Why Must the Burden of Proof Rest with the Spirits?"_ "You don't believe in psychic phenomena," said Doctor Otto Zoberg yet again, "because you _won't_." This with studied kindness, sitting in the most comfortable chair of my hotel room. I, at thirty-four, silently hoped I would have his health and charm at fifty-four--he was so rugged for all his lean length, so well groomed for all his tweeds and beard and joined eyebrows, so articulate for all his accent. Doctor Zoberg quite apparently liked and admired me, and I felt guilty once more that I did not entirely return the compliment. "I know that you are a stage magician----" he began afresh.