The Living Dead by Seymour le Moyne. Rayliph was last seen when he entered
the studio on that gray evening of October thirtieth. Some there were who called
him insane, some merely cataloged it queerness. At any rate, he was
a lonely spirit who refused all intercourse with his kind, preferring to work alone
selling his pictures. Now and then, when they found him lying dead in
his studio, with his brush in hand and a ghastly smile upon his face,
it was a nine days wonder. His body was discovered beneath an immense
canvas upon which he had painted huge blotches of lurid color without form or reason.
This was offered as an example of insanity. Whatever it was, it
has remained a mystery to the world. But my conscience troubles me. I
have known for years the real truth. I found him there. I superintended
the disposition of the papers, being his closest friend. I may have done
wrong to conceal the most important document, Yet after all, one hesitates to
give away the closest secrets of a friend's life. Now that Rayless pictures are
all sold, his reputation established. I see no reason why the inside story
of that tragic death should not be told. Here is the confession he wrote,
the Knight of the tragedy. Take it as it is. No writer
should embellish it or tamper with so strange an event. I lay it before
you in the form which I found it beside his body. Weird adventures have
come to me these last few weeks, so weird that I must put them
on paper. Twice now, I have seen the form of a strange woman
in my studio, just at dusk. Always she stands there on my model's
platform, her sad eyes gazing upon me with an ancient longing that thrills me
to the roots of my being. I wonder who she is. I have
dared to speak to her. I have gone to her side each time she
has disappeared. My lifelong desire to paint the portrait of Cleopatra's soul must have
been known to her. She seems to understand. She smiled when I looked
across the dim room at her. She raised her arms in supplication the first
time. I couldn't fathom her silence. Night after night she would appear and
disappear, always with the provoking silence, that haunting invitation in her eyes.
This evening, I returned to the studio and found her standing on the model's
platform. With a gasp of surprise, I locked the door, threw off
my coat, and rushed to the large easel. A moment later I was
at work. She did not move. I worked in a frenzy, at
last, delirious with a dream and its final accomplishment. This would be my
masterpiece. Little did I know that retribution waited upon my years of carelessness,
disregard for convention, selfishness. Just a few hours ago, I stopped working
for a moment. I had not turned on the light, my only illumination
being the sharp glow from the moon which fell over my canvas. Her rigid
attitude was beginning to perplex me. I could see her smiling in the half
darkness. She had wound about her a filmy robe, which made her appear
almost unreal. It confused me to see a model stand so long. I
spoke to her, She did not answer. I dared not do more,
for fear that she would disappear again from my vision. Hounded by my dream,
I picked up my brush again. The hours fell away from me like
leaves from a tree and fall. I was creating the greatest thing ever known,
the soul of a mummified queen. Who shall know what I might have
done had it not grown suddenly dark. The moonlight passed out of my window.
I threw on the electricity in its glow. I looked at her.
She did not move. I threw myself at her feet. I implored her
to speak, to rest, to do anything, rather than persevere in the
coldness and calm. Without thinking, I touched her hand. It was cold
as ice. I drew back. A terrible suspicion entered my mind. It
was the queen herself, the mummified body. I find it hard to write
now. Light mist before my eyes, Rivers of sound curtain me. I
paint fiercely. Still, she moves not. I have torn her to pieces.
I am groping for the air. Strange hands are about my throat.
I have tottered here to throw this paper. I I cannot see. This
document may throw some light on the fact that in the studio they found the
large plaster model of a woman, broken into many pieces. It had been
delivered by mistake the day before Ralph's death and belonged to the art class on
the floor above the End of the Living Dead by Seymour le Moyne,