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The Purple Cincture by H. Thompson Rich · Weird Tales Presents: Web of the Spider!

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Section two of Weird Tails presents Web of the Spider. This is a LibriVox
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recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or
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to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Red by Corey Ducett. Weird
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Tails presents Webb of the Spider. The Purple Cincture by H. Thomas Rich.
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It was a day in midsummer. I remember, I had been tramping
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over the densely wooded and desolate hillside the greater part of the morning, getting
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with each mile farther and farther from the tawdry haunts of home, and nearer
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and nearer the rugged heart of nature. Finally, it must have been after
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noontime, I paused and made a light lunch of the sandwiches and cold coffee
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I had brought with me from town. Sitting on the edge of a great
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slab of rock, swept clean and smoothed by ages of winds and rains and
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snows, all about me was a veritable garden of great projecting rocks, jagged
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and broken, flat and polished needleig giant flowers of earth in a thousand different
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forms. Here and there a short dwarfed pine of spruce tree struggled for a
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footing amid its rocky friends, and the restless undergrowth surged up through every crack
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and crevice, while energetic mosses and lichens clutched at the granite walls and crept
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bravely up. One had a feeling of awe as if in the presence of
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elemental eternal forces here, I thought, if anywhere one might commune with the
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voiceless void. Suddenly my eyes chanced to fall upon a fissure in the rock
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to the left, and I sprang up with the low exclamation. What I
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had beheld was, to all appearances a human skeleton, advancing reluctantly, yet
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with the instant inquisitiveness which surrounds the dead. I bent and peered into the
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fissure. As I looked, a cry escaped to me. The object I
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beheld was indeed a skeleton, but what a skeleton? The head, the
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left hand, and the foot were entirely missing, nor was there any sign
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of them at first sight. Thoroughly fascinated by the morbid spectacle, I began
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a search for the missing members, and was finally rewarded by unearthing the head
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some twenty feet away, where it lay half buried in the soft loam of
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decayed vegetation and sifted coal. But a painstaking and minute hunt failed to reveal
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the missing hand and foot. I was successful, however, in finding something
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immeasurably more important, a manuscript. This I found by the side of the
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mangled skeleton. It consisted of several pages of closely written material in a small
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pocket notebook, which, fact in connection with the partial shelter afforded by the
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crevice where the body lay, doubtless accounts for its preservation through the years that
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have passed since its owner met its hideous fate. Picking up the notebook with
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nervous fingers, I opened it and turned the damp and musty pages through,
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reading it at first hastily, then slower and more carefully, then with a
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fevering concentration, as the awful significance of the words was riveted into my brain.
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The writing was in a man's cramped, agitated hand, and I give
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it to you just as I read it, with the exception of the name,
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aims and places, and a few paragraphs of vital scientific data, all
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but a few words at the very beginning and end, where the manuscript had
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been molded into illegibility by the gradual action of the weather. Here follows as
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strange. I had a sense of apprehension from the start, a vague,
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indescribable feeling of doubt, of dread, as if some one, something were
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urging me out away into the sullen hills. I might have known the law
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of retribution as positive as the law of gravity. I know that, now,
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oh, irony, But I was so sure. No one knew.
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No one could know. She my wife, heart of all until the end,
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and the neighbors, her friends, never she had merely pined away.
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No one dreamed I had poisoned her. Even when she died, there was
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no thought of autopsy. She had long been failing. And had I not
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been most concerned, earned none in the little town of Blank. But who
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sympathized with me? And I mourned, Oh, I mourned. So it
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was that she paid the price of her infamy. Ah, But revenge never
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was sweeter. And he, Oh, but I despised him, even as
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I had formerly admired him, even as I had once loved my wife.
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So I despised him, and despising him, I killed him, killed him,
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But with a poison far more subtle than that I had used to destroy
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My wife killed him with a poison in effect so hideous, so harrowing,
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that I scarcely think of it without sickening even as I write. The poison
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I inoculated into his veins was a germ poison, A disease I, a
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physician of no small repute, had discovered and bred. A disease I had
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found existed only in a particular and very rare species, a virulent purple and
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orange banded spider. The genus here following the original manuscripts seven paragraphs of elaborate
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scientific data of no particular interest to the average reader, but of incalculable import
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to the scientific world. These paragraphs I have omitted from this account for very
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significant reasons, but I hold them open to the scientific examination at any time,
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and as I have said before, I will welcome investigation. I will
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welcome investigation by reputable scientists. A disease was responsible for the extreme rarity of
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this particular species. By segregating and breeding diseased members of this particular species of
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spider, I was able to produce the disease in the young in its most
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virulent form. You can well imagine the care I used in handling these spiders
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to prevent infection. Briefly, the symptoms were as follows. The spider about
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to be stricken apparently first experiences a peculiar numbness of the first left fore leg,
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to judge from its inability to use or move the affected member. A
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day or so later, the leg, which is in healthy condition is a
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dull brown, turns a pale, sickening shade of yellow, which deepens rapidly
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until it is taken on a flaming orange hue. Then, in a few
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hours, a deep, vicious looking blue cincture or band appears just at the
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first joint of the affected member. This cincture rapidly deepens to purple, which
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seems somehow to fear its way into the flesh and through the bone, so
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that in a surprisingly short time, the whole leg is severed at the joint
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where the cincture has been. Spider then appears to regain its normal condition of
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health, which it maintains for about a week. Then once again, the
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hideous disease manifests itself, this time in the left feeler or antenna, which
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in turn becomes yellow, then orange, whereupon the same blue cincture appears and
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deepens to purple. Then, in about the same period of time as the
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case of the leg, the antenna drops off, seared as if by some
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hellish flame. Once again, the spider appears to regain its health. Then
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in about a week, the whole head of the stricken insect turns slowly yellow,
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then orange. Once again, the spider appears to regain its health.
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Then in about a week, the whole head of the stricken insect turns slowly
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yellow, then orange. Then the sincter appears, and as the last manifestation,
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the head is seared off in flaming agony, and the spider dies in
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horrible convulsions. That briefly is the process, as I was able to note
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after weeks and months of tireless research and observation, so that more perfect punishment
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for the man who stole from me my wife while pretending to be my friend.
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Loving her as I did, I had not the heart to kill her
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in this hideous way, so I put her to death with a painless and
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insidious poison. But for blank I had no mercy. In fact, I
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gloated as I worked over my vile and diseased spiders, breeding them together until
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I was convinced that I had the germs of the disease in its most virulent
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form. Even then I was not sure what the effect would be on a
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human being that much at least I must hazard, So, having finally made
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all my preparations, I invited him to my house and placed one of the
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diseased spiders upon his forehead one night as he slept. It must have bitten
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him, for he awoke with a cry, and I had barely time to
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close his door and get back to my room before I heard him rise and
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turn on the light. Then he called me, and I came to him,
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burning with a fiendish satisfaction. Something has bidden me horribly, he said,
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I feel as if I were going to be ill. I managed to
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reassure him by telling him that it was very likely nothing but one of our
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uncommonly large mosquitoes, and he returned to bed. But he did not sleep
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all night. I heard him moaning and tossing, and in the morning he
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was very pale. I do not know what is the matter with me,
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he said, And I thought he looked at me queerly, but I feel
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as if a little rest would do me good. I feel choked. I
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think I will pack up my knapsack and go off to the hills for the
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weekend. Want to come? I longed to go with him to see the
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dread disease work, but I feared its deadly contagion and was anxious to get
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him away before I myself became contaminated. So I said no, and he
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went. That was the last I ever saw of him. But once he
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went away as he had promised, and he seemed apparently well, all except
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the curious little inflamed spot on his forehead, whose significance I knew so well.
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He went away and he failed to come back. Days passed and there
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came no word from him. People began inquiring it was odd that he should
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have left no address. His business suffered. Weeks went by, and no
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word search parties were sent out. The river was dragged, the morgues of
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nearby cities were searched, and all the while I laughed, for who would
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think of turning to those far off hills? And yet as the days went
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by, I found myself turning to them again, wondering, wondering, wondering,
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I grew nervous, agitated, I got so I couldn't sleep. Finally,
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on a day in late summer, it was the eighth of August,
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date I shall never forget. I packed a few things and set off.
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I packed a few things and set off in search of him. God knows.
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I tried to tell myself not, but at any rate, I found
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myself strangely magnetically drawn to those distant somber hills, and thither I went.
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It was one of those gorgeous mornings that only August can produce, and the
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exhilarating air would have lifted my spirits. But instead I walked along depressed,
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and the knapsack strapped to my shoulder served only to intensify the feeling. In
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spite of all I could do, I found my mind reverting to the hideous
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revenge I had reaked on my wife and her lover, and for the first
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time, repentance stole in upon me. I walked along slowly, and it
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was well toward noon before I left the beaten road and started at random off
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over the hills, following a narrow and little used path. Progress now became
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doubly slow and painful, leading off and up steep inclines and hard descents,
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with the aspect momentarily becoming more and more rugged as I left the lower hills
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and climbed toward the mountain. By this time, however, I had got
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a kind of exhilaration sought in vain during the earlier hours of the morning,
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and climbed on and on, glad to free body and mind thus of the
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poison of brooding and lassitude. I would return to the town in the night
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and take supper at one of the small inns that abound thereabouts. This would
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give me some hours. Yet before I turned back for the time being,
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the thought of searching for Blank was forgotten. I had freed my mind of
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him entirely. Presently, the path I had been following branched, and the
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right half narrowed into an all but obliterated trail leading up a laborious slope,
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forcing my way over dry, snapping underbrush and under low hanging spruce bough,
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occasionally starting an indignant partridge from its hidden nest, Often put to a wide
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detour to avoid some hazardous gully cut deep by centuries of spring and autumn fresh
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sheets, I at last emerged upon a small circular clearing, evidently the work
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of some lone wood chopper. Here I sat down, tired by the climb,
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and refreshed myself with a sandwich from my knapsack. I pushed on to
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the summit, pausing frequently to examine some uncommon species of insect life with which
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the hills abounded. So much was I enjoying myself in such scant notice of
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the time, did I take that the sunset came upon me with unawareness?
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That the sunset came upon me unawares? And I found myself with darkness settling
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in on all sides, with a startling rapidity, still on the summit of
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the mountain, with a good three mile descent before me. Indeed, the
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prospect was not altogether a cheering one, and I reproached myself for my heedlessness.
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But I had found a species of spider for which I had searched in
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vain for months. So somewhat reassured by its precious body in a pill box
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in my pocket, I started down in spite of my speed. However,
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night shut in on me before I had made one quarter of the return,
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leaving me to grope the rest of the way in utter darkness, with not
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even the light of a dim star to go by. Vague fear awoke within
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me, but I shielded my eyes and stumbled to the bottom, sliding,
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falling, clutching here and there at some projecting tree limb to check my headlong
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descent. Finally, torn and disheveled and shaking, I emerged upon the clearing,
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pausing only to breathe. I plunged on into the dark. Fear was
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growing, growing, that particular fear of the dark, which is the heritage
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of those who have taken human life. What was that? Something lay gleaming
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queerly ahead with a dull, phosphorescent glow. I stooped and picked it up
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and flung it from me, shuddering. It was the skeleton of a human
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foot. I groped on my every heart beat, choking in my throat.
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Of a sudden I came forcefully against a barrier of rock. I tried to
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feel my way around to get beyond it, but could not. It seemed
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continuous, a solid wall that would not let me buy Had I fallen into
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a trap in the darkness? Terrified, I turned and lay there something else
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gleaming with that same weird phosphorescent glow. Sick with terror and dread, half
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fearing what it might be, I sprang on it and picked it up,
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picked it up the rotten hand of a human being. With a stifled gasp,
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I flung it from me, reeled, tripped through some vines, and
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fell, swooning. When I came to myself, I struck a match and
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looked about me. Its feeble flame revealed a pair of damp, rocky walls,
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low and vaulted. I was in some sort of cavern. Later on,
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I crept out, collected an armful of sticks, brought them back,
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and soon had a fire started by its light. I observed that the rear
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of the cave was still in darkness, and judging that it must extend back
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indefinitely, I gave my attention to my immediate surroundings, when, with a
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shock, I saw directly in front of me a granite slab. On it
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lay several loose sheets of manuscript, scrawled wildly on odd scraps of paper.
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With a prophetic dread, I bent forward and gathered the loose sheets together,
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holding them near the fire. I peered closer. Then I think a cry
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must have escaped me. The writing was in Blank's hand, and curiously scrawled
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and scraggly, but still recognizable. So fate had brought me to my victim.
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For the rest. There is little more to say. I am doomed,
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as I deserve, even as he was doomed. His words speak all
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that can be spoken. They follow April fourth. I had meant to spend
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only a week end in the hills. Yet here I am, after two
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weeks, still here and suffering the pains of hell. What has come over
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me? I cannot imagine, And yet can I not? I am not
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too sure. Perhaps perhaps Blank has, in some devilish way managed to poison
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me. He is insanely jealous. He thinks there is something between his wife
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and me. Verily, I believe he harassed her to death on the subject,
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and having thus brought her to her grave, he wishes to send me
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there. Perhaps he will succeed. If it is true that in some fiendish
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way he has got some of his germs into my blood. The bite at
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his house that evening, I am not sure. It was the most unusual
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bite. It seemed upon the instant to sour all my blood. And yet
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if he accomplishes my death, how vain it will be, For as God
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is my witness, I swear I never harmed his wife. We were the
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best of friends, nothing more. And she loved him with a wholeness,
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a passion that any but a man maddened by groundless jealous he must at once
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have seen how he has wrecked his life a mind so brilliant, and yet
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with her dead a closed room. However I may be wrong, I will
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wait by the symptoms. I will know. I write this down, for
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I must do something. April fifth. It is he now is hellish work,
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I am sure of it. To day my left leg, which for
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two weeks has felt positively numb, turned a sickening yellow from the ankle down,
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which began at once to deepen until it now flames orange. And oh
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the pain is hellish. Yes, I am sure it is Blank's work.
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But I will still withhold judgment. April sixth, to day, her deep,
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virulent blue cincture has appeared just at the ankle of the affected leg.
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What a hellish contrast to the orange. It is Blank, I am sure
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now, Oh what a fiend. April seventh, the cincture as deepened to
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purple and seems to cut into the very flesh. It seems sometimes as if
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the pain would drive me mad. April eighth, my flaming foot dropped off
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tonight, zered at the ankle by purple cincture, and I flung it outside
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the cave. I wonder perhaps I may yet live to return to the world.
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Ah, I will be avenged for this. May twenty third, I
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am cursed, cursed today. Just as I was beginning to believe the hellish
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thing had left me, it would turned this time in my left hand.
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Oh, I can see it all tomorrow, the next day, and the
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next. For just two weeks, my hand will be numb. Then will
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come that frightful yellow, then the orange, then then the purple cincture.
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Curse the man who discovered this hellish disease and turned it into me. I
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could tear him limb from limb. Oh I pray to return. I would
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go now. Yet I fear my malady is of a vitally contagious nature.
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I have not the heart to menace a whole community, perhaps a whole nation,
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perhaps humanity itself, merely to avenge myself on one man. June sixth,
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I was right this morning. I awoke with my hand, that death
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yellow. Oh it is too regular, too certain, too cruelly certain.
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June ninth, Thank God, my hand is gone out there where my foot
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went. It happened tonight. Perhaps I may yet return, Perhaps I may
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yet be avenged, I wonder. July twenty first, doomed that fearful numbness
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again, this time in my head. I cannot think, I cannot write,
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I can scarcely breathe. Oh the pain, the pain It ended in
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sputter of ink, trembling in every limb, filled with a horror and anguish
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and remorse. No man could know, spell bound by the awful tale those
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few sheets told. I sat there, motionless. So I had been wrong.
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Oh my jealousy, my insane jealousy. As I sat there, all
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desire of life suddenly left me, and I thrilled with joy at the remembrance
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of the hand and foot I had come upon outside the cave. They were
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his, I had touched them. I was contaminated with the dread disease.
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What was that? I listened, straining every nerve from the back of the
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cavern had come a sound. Five minutes passed, ten fifteen. I was
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oblivious of time, but it was not repeated slightly, I relaxed my aching
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nerves and tried to think. Already I fancied, I could feel the fearful
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poison of the disease spider working in my veins. Suddenly, the significance of
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the last entry in Blank's diary burst upon me, and I sat shivering as
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under a sudden deluge of icy water. July twenty first. Two weeks more
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would make it August fifth, and three days more would bring it to August
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eighth, Great God, I cried aloud, to night is the night,
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Yes, to night, as the night echoed a sepulcher voice from the caverns
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inner darkness. In an agony of dread, I looked, and the blood
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within me paled to water at the sight that met my gaze. Something,
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something without but a single hand and foot, emerged from the shadows of the
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back of the cavern, and began to come forward, leaning heavily upon a
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rough staff for support. Stay back, stay back, for the love of
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God, I shrieked. But the terrible thing came on and on, and
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the awful eyes fastened themselves upon my person and suddenly recognized me, and it
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smiled a hideous smile. When it drew nearer, I could see that all
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above the shoulders flamed orange, while around the neck a livid purple cincture seemed
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actually to be searing its way into the flesh. This is your revenge,
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it spoke, and this is mine, raising the hellish stump of a mutilated
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left arm and panting heavily at me. My suffering is over, but yours
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is all to come. And to the bodily pains of hell will be added
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to the mental torches of hopeless remorse. Knowing your wife was innocent with that,
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I curse you. Even as it spoke. The eyes rolled out of
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sight behind horrid lids, and the tongue protruded itself in flaming agony, and
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the whole head suddenly severed at the neck thudded the cave floor. I came
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to my feet with a mad cry that, shattering the silence beyond the deepest
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shadows, swelled up in a thousand echoes, from the wall of a soul
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in torment to the screw each of a crucified demon. Then I rushed headlong
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out for the rest blank. The last page was illegible, as the first
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had been worn and corroded by the slow action of years of decay. I
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put the notebook slowly in my pocket and sat there, thinking, sickened and
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awed by the astounding manuscript. Again, I went over to the skeleton there
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in the fissure. Now I understood why the hand and foot were missing,
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and why I had found the head many feet from the body. There it
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lay mute evidence that the retribution was complete. End of Section two of Weird
23:40
Tales presents web of the spider the purple sancture