face.
"Mother of Christ!" I heard him whisper. He dropped to his knees.
I saw him dimly for I could not take my eyes from Peters' face. It was the face of a grinning, triumphant
fiend-all humanity wiped from it-the face of a demon straight out of some mad medieval painter's hell.
The blue eyes, now utterly malignant, glared at Ricori.
And as I looked, the dead hands moved; slowly the arms bent up from the elbows, the fingers
contracting like claws; the dead body began to stir beneath the covers-
At that the spell of nightmare dropped from me; for the first time in hours I was on ground that I knew. It
was the rigor mortis, the stiffening of death-but setting in more quickly and proceeding at a rate I had
never known.