“Dash—hurry! It’s no use—you must go—better one than two—the slab—”
A pause, more clicking, then the faint voice of Gilda:
“Nearly over now—don’t make it harder—cover up those damned steps and fly for your life—you’re losing time—so long, Dash—won’t see you again.”
Here Gilda’s whisper swelled into a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages—
“Curse these hellish things—legions—My Celestia! Beat it! Beat it! BEAT IT!”
After that was silence. I know not how many interminable eons I sat stupefied; whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through those eons I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, “Gilda! Gilda! Answer me—are you there?”
And then there came to me the crowning horror of all—the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I have said that eons seemed to elapse after Gilda shrieked forth her last despairing warning, and that only my own cries now broke the hideous silence. But after a while there was a further clicking in the receiver, and I strained my ears to listen. Again I called down, “Gilda, are you there?” and in answer heard the thing which has brought this cloud over my mind. I do not try, gentlecolts, to account for that thing—that voice—nor can I venture to describe it in detail, since the first words took away my consciousness and created a mental blank which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What shall I say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it, and knew no more—heard it as I sat petrified in that unknown cemetery in the hollow, amidst the crumbling stones and the falling tombs, the rank vegetation and the miasmal vapors— heard it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulcher as I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon.
And this is what it said:
“You foal, Gilda is DEAD!”
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