Creeps by Night: Chills and Thrills

So in this case the sun glare had drawn tighter and tighter the lashings about this poor devil’s body, squeezing him in at the stomach and the breast and- the shoulders, pressing his arms tighter and tighter and yet tighter against his sides. That for him would have been a highly unpleasant procedure but it would not have killed him.

Something else had done that. One loop of the rawhide had been twisted about his neck and made fast at the back of the post. At first it might have been no more than a loosely fitting circlet but hour by hour it had shrunk into a choking collar, a diminishing noose, a terrible deadly yoke. Veritably it had garroted him by inches.

Mr. Arcularis by Conrad Aiken

Mr. Arcularis stood at the window of his room in the hospital and looked down at the street. There had been a light shower, which had patterned the sidewalks with large drops, but now again the sun was out, blue sky was showing here and there between the swift white clouds, a cold wind was blowing the poplar trees. An itinerant band had stopped before the building and was playing, with Violin, harp, and flute, the finale of “Cavalleria Rusticana.” Leaning against the window-sill — for he felt extraordinarily weak after his operation — Mr. Arcularis suddenly, listening to the wretched music, felt like crying. He rested the palm of one hand against a cold window-pane and stared down at the old man who was blowing the flute, and blinked his eyes. It seemed absurd that he should be so weak, so emotional, so like a child — and especially now that everything was over at last. In spite of all their predictions, in spite, too, of his own dreadful certainty that he was going to die, here he was, as fit as a fiddle — but what a fiddle it was, so out of tune! — with a long life before him. And to begin with, a voyage to England ordered by the doctor. What could be more delightful? Why should he feel sad about it and want to cry like a baby? In a few minutes Harry would arrive with his car to take him to the wharf; in an hour he would be on the sea, in two hours he would see the sunset behind him, where Boston had been, and his new life would be opening before him. It was many years since he had been abroad. June, the best of the year to come — England, France, the Rhine — how ridiculous that he should already be homesick!

There was a light footstep outside the door, a knock, the door opened, and Harry came in.

“Well, old man, I’ve come to get you. The old bus actually got here. Are you ready? Here, let me take your arm. You’re tottering like an octogenarian!”

Mr. Arcularis submitted gratefully, laughing, and they made the journey slowly along the bleak corridor and down the stairs to the entrance hall. Miss Hoyle, his nurse, was there, and the Matron, and the charming little assistant with freckles who had helped to prepare him for the operation. Miss Hoyle put out her hand.

“Good-by, Mr. Arcularis,” she said, “and bon voyage.”

“Good-by, Miss Hoyle, and thank you for everything. You were very kind to me. And I fear I was a nuisance.”

The girl with the freckles, too, gave him her hand, smiling. She was very pretty, and it would have been easy to fall in love with her. She reminded him of some one. Who was it? He tried in vain to remember while he said good-by to her and turned to the Matron.

“And not too many latitudes with the young ladies, Mr. Arcularis!” she was saying.

Mr. Arcularis was pleased, flattered, by all this attention to a middle-aged invalid, and felt a joke taking shape in his mind, and no sooner in his mind than on his tongue.

“Oh, no latitudes,” he said, laughing. “I’ll leave the latitudes to the ship!”

“Oh, come now,” said the Matron, “we don’t seem to have hurt him much, do we?”

“I think we’ll have to operate on him again and really cure him,” said Miss Hoyle.

He was going down the front steps, between the potted palmettos, and they all laughed and waved. The wind was cold, very cold for June, and he was glad he had put on his coat. He shivered.

“Damned cold for June!” he said. “Why should it be so cold?”

“East wind,” Harry said, arranging the rug over his knees. “Sorry it’s an open car, but I believe in fresh air and all that sort of thing. I’ll drive slowly. We’ve got plenty of time.”