The Hate Master

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Death was there. And worse than death. For death can be clean — a crisp break from living, a straight road into oblivion.

This was a grim and foul thing, to leave its loathsome mark in red-dripping letters over a page in American history better hidden than read.

The place in which this thing was born was secretive, hidden, a perfect spot for unnamable births.

All around, for over four miles in any direction, were thick woods, almost as gloomy and impenetrable as the Black Forests of Europe. Then there was a clearing half as large as a football field. Around the clearing, with trees and underbrush crowding right up to the thick-mesh wire, was a high fence with barbed-wire strands slanting outward at the top.

The wire of the fence was electrified; it carried a load that would bring sure death to any small animal and a severe shock to a human.

In the center of the clearing was the building. It was a one-story structure, looking like a small factory. It was about fifty feet square, with windows from ground to roof along all the walls but one corner. The windows in the corner were average size and had curtains at them, indicating that this corner of the place was for living space. Evidently, some woman was around to make that space as cozy as possible.

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