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The Cave of Murdered Men, a
fantasy by W. Benson Dueling from Weird

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Tales Magazine, December nineteen twenty four. This is a LibriVox recording. All

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LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,

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please visit LibriVox dot org. Read
by Dale Growthman, The Cave of Murdered

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Men by W. Benson Dueling.
A chill penetrating wind made the place insufferable

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for any but the dead. Wet
mossy substance clung to the rocky walls,

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floor and ceiling. Several corked bottles
of ancient wines lay on the rock hewn

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table. Fungus and spider like webbing
almost concealed the jade green of the glass.

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Bats flew about horribly, shrieking and
thudding as their insect ridden wings struck

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against the mossy cavern walls. A
speckled snake hissed a call of warning to

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a hunger mad rat. The place
was dedicated too by and for the dead.

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What life existed there was low life, starved life, pestilent life.

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The dead were there, The murdered
men were there in a body, men

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who had been poisoned, men who
had been hung, men who had hung

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themselves, men who had been cut
by a saber or pierced by a rapier,

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men who had dined with borgia.
They were all there, and there

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they must stay until their murders were
avenged. They sat about the cave in

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pensive melancholy, Their long black cloaks
hung in tatters about their bony frames.

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Several of them carried sabers. One
had a monocle wedged in his eye socket,

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another held a leafless rose in his
hand. They sat about and talked

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in whispers that harmonized strangely with the
eerie whispering of that biting wind. Tales

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were told, tales of blinded faith, tales of money left in trust,

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tales of stock markets, tales of
roulette wheels, tales of love, and

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tales of mad orgies. Now and
then, as a drinking story was told,

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a parched tongue touched thirsty lips,
weary eyes wandered to the fungus covered

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wine bottles that they could not touch, and back again to the faces of

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thirsty comrades. A door in the
wall of the cavern, a door of

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solid onyx with a knob of Lapis
Lazuli. The door to the outside world

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swung open. A figure entered and
seated himself at the table. There was

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an expectant silence. After a moment, he raised his head. There was

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sorrow in his eyes. I have
been avenged, he said. I will

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go now, another will take my
place. He raised a bottle from the

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table, broke the neck against the
rock with a long sweeping motion of his

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bony arm, and drank deeply.
I drink, he murmured, to your

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new comrade. He faded into nothingness. A figure rose and gathered his tattered

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cloak about him. The onyx door
swung open. He nodded to his comrades

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and was gone. The light canoe
bobbed up and down with the turbulent waters

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of the swiftly moving river. A
pale, gray haired man seated in the

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stern guided the fail craft as well
as possible in the swiftly moving tide.

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He glanced over his shoulder to see
if the thing still followed him. It

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was there, true enough, a
few yards behind. He paddled more fiercely.

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Would he never shake the thing?
It had been with him for the

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last month. It had trailed him
through the streets of a big city.

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It had followed him when he sought
relief from it and his thoughts to his

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country villa. It had stared over
his shoulder when he played at cards.

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It had spoiled his putts on the
golf course. It had laughed with him

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at the musical comedy. It had
cried with him at the tragic opera.

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He did not know what or who
it was, but he knew that it

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worried him. It bore fifty one
strange, abstract resemblances to the man he

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had murdered so many years ago.
It could not be Radnor. Radnor was

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dead. A kingfisher swooped low and
away with a bright flash of color.

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An owl gave a melancholy hoot from
the thick foliaged shore. The thing behind

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him gave a hollow laugh, a
laugh that blended strangely with the unseasonable wind.

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He raised his hand nervously to his
hair. It had been glossy black

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three weeks ago. It was a
dull gray. Now. A chill,

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not of the night wind seemed to
freeze the marrow in his bones. He

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laughed a discordant laugh in answer to
the thing. He glanced back again and

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again. His eyes were staring strangely. There was a queer light in them,

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a light not so much fear as
madness. The thing was gaining on

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him, there was no doubt of
that. Perhaps it would like a drink

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from the silver flask in his pocket. He would fool it. There was

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only enough for one. He would
make for the shore. That was the

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thing to do. The bow of
the light canoe turned gently to the right.

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In a moment, it was caught
in the churning current. The man

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in the stern stood bolt upright.
The canoe swirled round and round, then

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sailed out into space over the falls
in a fifty foot drop to the angry

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rocks below. The man saw just
before he dropped that the thing behind had

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gone. The onyx door swung open
and closed again. A man in a

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tattered cloak walked to the table and
seated himself. There was an expectant silence.

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He took a bottle from the table, broke the neck, and drank

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deeply. I drink, he said
to your new comrade. The End of

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the Cave of Murdered Men by W. Benson Dweling