I looked down at Morgan. His hands had dropped nervelessly at his sides while his body had hunched over peculiarly. I turned the lampshade back, throwing the light squarely in his face. His eyes were staring, fixed. Filled with a sudden foreboding, I stepped beside him and called Chicago on the wire. After a second the sounder clicked its answer.
Why? But there was something wrong. Chicago was reporting that Wire Two had not been used throughout the evening.
“Morgan!” I shouted. “Morgan! Wake up, it isn’t true. Someone has been hoaxing us. Why——” In my eagerness I grasped him by the shoulder. It was only then that I understood.
The body was quite cold. Morgan had been dead for hours. Could it be that his sensitized brain and automatic fingers had continued to record impressions even after the end?
I shall never know, for I shall never again handle the night shift. Search in a world atlas discloses no town of Xebico. Whatever it was that killed John Morgan will forever remain a mystery.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 1926 issue of Weird Tales.