To his horror, before he could locate the source of the crash, a low, sepulchral voice spoke!
“Go!—Go!—I am the Thing That Never Was—the Man Who Never Lived! Go—or I take you with me—down—down—down-n-n-n!”
Chick whirled to face about. In a corner, behind him, half out of the floor, as it seemed, was the shape of the Thing—terrifying, and yet surprising. Green, dull and glistening, as if of plastered seaweed or wet rubber was its head. Heavy, glistening, ooze-covered was the covering upon its partially disclosed torso. Green, glistening, but dripping with slimy weed were its waving, beckoning hands.
Transfixed, rooted to his tracks, Chick gasping, stared.
Seen in the unearthly, fitful flashes of lightning, the yellow lantern flicker and the dull refracted red from the burning flares outside, the apparition was horrifying enough.
But Chick felt his muscles unchained as the figure grew in height and advanced toward him, its long, glistening, weed-spattered arms outstretched. Like a streak of fleeing terror Chick raced out of the door.
There he paused, uncertain. It was safer in the open than in the room: the signals and the brighter light outside the cabin would enable him to see better that Thing of Fear if it came forth.
Out it came, speaking no word. Terrified, Chick ran. But for all its flapping encumbrance of weird draperies, it was swift. It caught the youth. Terror chilled his blood but he struggled. Then his courage came welling to him. If those hands could grip they must be human, and if shins kicked in desperation could evoke human growls of dismay, he faced no spectre, but a flesh-and-blood creature.
The man, in his horrid garments, was searching with exploring fingers while he tried to hold the squirming, kicking Chick who strove to be free, to escape.
There were shouts from the other side of the hovel; suddenly Chick felt his inner pocket ripped open, and the Thing—or man—was away over the planking, running fleetly and with sure steps. He knew that way!