Something of the wonder that must have come to men seeking magic in the sky in days long vanished.
The amethyst-covered boots had been worn by an evil wanton in medieval Florence—but what malefic power did they carry over into our own time?
A curious and terrifying story about an artist who sold his soul that he might paint a living picture.
Everything seemed normal—except that one man, and the kitten, had vanished.
It looked exactly like a little dog waiting to be lifted into its mistress’ arms. It had dimension and a definite personality. It seemed more than a shadow or a wet spot.
In abandoned cisterns and old wells, in moldy heaps of straw forgotten in the corners of deserted barns, in reedy pools deep in the woods, in fungied hollows of dead trees, in all such secret places apart from man, strange life engenders, drifts in and takes root and form.
In a place called Yancey’s Meadow such a thing grew and waxed and made itself a shape, listened and dozed and waited.
“Oh, no; I’m really here,” the voice, inaudible but mentally present, assured him. “You can’t see me, or touch me, or even really hear me, but I’m not something you just imagined. I’m just as real as … as Smokeball, there. Only I’m a different kind of reality. Watch.”
Pioneers have always resented their wanderlust, hated their hardships. But the future brings a new grudge—when pioneers stay put and scholars do the exploring!
It is the kind of news item you read at least a dozen times a year, wonder about briefly, and then promptly forget—but the real story is the one that the reporters are unable to cover! A time travel story that will stay with you long after you turned the final page.