The Third Skull

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“WHO’S there?”

The voice was a quavering tremolo. It came from the dried lips of a thin-faced old man, who lay propped in bed. Sharp, suspicious eyes glistened from a withered countenance that was as white as the pillows that supported it.

There was no answer to the old man’s call. The white face showed worriment. Even the dull lights in the shaded wall brackets were sufficient enough to reveal the tense pursing of the withered lips.

“Tristram,” came another quaver. “Is it you, Tristram? Have you returned?”

No answer. Parchment lips relaxed.

“Wingate?” The old man’s voice was questioning. “Are you here, Wingate? Have you arrived at last?”

Silence followed. This second-story room held the stillness of a tomb. Pervading gloom seemed creeping inward from the hushed house below.

The old man raised a trembling clawlike hand from beneath the whiteness of the bedspread. He ran his fingers through the long white hair that formed a shock upon his head. He cackled a nervous laugh.

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