Mask of Death
By PAUL ERNST
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird TalesAugust-September 1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CONTENTS
1. The Dread Paralysis
2. The Living Dead
3. The Stopped Watch
4. The Shell
5. Death's Lovely Mask
1. The Dread Paralysis
On one of the most beautiful bays of the Maine coast rested the townthat fourteen months before had existed only on an architect'sdrawing-board.
Around the almost landlocked harbor were beautiful homes,bathing-beaches, parks. On the single Main Street were model stores.Small hotels and inns were scattered on the outskirts. Streets werelaid, radiating from the big hotel in the center of town like spokesfrom a hub. There was a waterworks and a landing-field; a power houseand a library.
It looked like a year-round town, but it wasn't. Blue Bay, it wascalled; and it was only a summer resort....
Only? It was the last word in summer resorts! The millionaires backingit had spent eighteen million dollars on it. They had placed it on afine road to New York. They ran planes and busses to it. They were goingto clean up five hundred per cent on their investment, in real estatedeals and rentals.
On this, its formal opening night, the place was wide open. In everybeautiful summer home all lights were on, whether the home in questionwas tenanted or not. The stores were open, whether or not customers wereavailable. The inns and small hotels were gay with decorations.
But it was at the big hotel at the hub of the town that the gayetiesattendant on such a stupendous opening night were at their mostcomplete.
Every room and suite was occupied. The lobby was crowded. Formallydressed guests strolled the promenade, and tried fruitlessly to gainadmission to the already overcrowded roof garden.
Here, with tables crowded to capacity and emergency waiters trying togive all the de luxe service required, the second act of the famous BlueBay floor show was going on.
In the small dance floor at the center of the tables was a dancer. Shewas doing a slave dance, trying to free herself from chains. Thespotlight was on; the full moon, pouring its silver down on the openroof, added its blue beams.
The dancer was excellent. The spectators were enthralled. One elderlyman, partially bald, a little too stout, seemed particularly engrossed.He sat alone at a ringside table, and had been shown marked deferenceall during the evening. For he was Mathew Weems, owner of a large blockof stock in the Blue Bay summer resort development, and a very wealthyman.
Weems was leaning forward over his table, staring at the dancer withsensual lips parted. And she, quite aware of his attention and hiswealth, was outdoing herself.
A prosaic scene, one would have said. Opening night of a resort de luxe;wealthy widower concentrating on a dancer's whirling bare b