The Red Fetish
By Frank Belknap Long, Jr.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales January 1930.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"They writhed in the sun like wounded snakes."
Bill Cullen shaded his eyes with his hand and stared at the empty skyline. His arms, as he stood in the glittering light, showed scraggy and emaciated and his features were pinched and black. There had been strong winds blowing and enormous seas thundering on the beach, and the ferocity of the elements had accentuated his helplessness. He turned to his companion with a gesture of despair.
"Look here," he said, "you know as well as I do that it is physically impossible for us to hang on without water. What do you say to a swim?"
Bill's companion groaned and shook his head. He was a frightened, nervous little man with pointed fox-like ears, and people who knew him were prone to brand him a coward. His name, Wellington Van Wyck, did not raise him in the estimation of his friends.