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The Living Dead by Seymour le Moyne. Rayliph was last seen when he entered

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the studio on that gray evening of
October thirtieth. Some there were who called

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him insane, some merely cataloged it
queerness. At any rate, he was

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a lonely spirit who refused all intercourse
with his kind, preferring to work alone

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selling his pictures. Now and then, when they found him lying dead in

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his studio, with his brush in
hand and a ghastly smile upon his face,

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it was a nine days wonder.
His body was discovered beneath an immense

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canvas upon which he had painted huge
blotches of lurid color without form or reason.

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This was offered as an example of
insanity. Whatever it was, it

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has remained a mystery to the world. But my conscience troubles me. I

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have known for years the real truth. I found him there. I superintended

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the disposition of the papers, being
his closest friend. I may have done

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wrong to conceal the most important document, Yet after all, one hesitates to

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give away the closest secrets of a
friend's life. Now that Rayless pictures are

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all sold, his reputation established.
I see no reason why the inside story

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of that tragic death should not be
told. Here is the confession he wrote,

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the Knight of the tragedy. Take
it as it is. No writer

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should embellish it or tamper with so
strange an event. I lay it before

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you in the form which I found
it beside his body. Weird adventures have

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come to me these last few weeks, so weird that I must put them

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on paper. Twice now, I
have seen the form of a strange woman

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in my studio, just at dusk. Always she stands there on my model's

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platform, her sad eyes gazing upon
me with an ancient longing that thrills me

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to the roots of my being.
I wonder who she is. I have

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dared to speak to her. I
have gone to her side each time she

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has disappeared. My lifelong desire to
paint the portrait of Cleopatra's soul must have

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been known to her. She seems
to understand. She smiled when I looked

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across the dim room at her.
She raised her arms in supplication the first

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time. I couldn't fathom her silence. Night after night she would appear and

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disappear, always with the provoking silence, that haunting invitation in her eyes.

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This evening, I returned to the
studio and found her standing on the model's

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platform. With a gasp of surprise, I locked the door, threw off

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my coat, and rushed to the
large easel. A moment later I was

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at work. She did not move. I worked in a frenzy, at

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last, delirious with a dream and
its final accomplishment. This would be my

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masterpiece. Little did I know that
retribution waited upon my years of carelessness,

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disregard for convention, selfishness. Just
a few hours ago, I stopped working

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for a moment. I had not
turned on the light, my only illumination

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being the sharp glow from the moon
which fell over my canvas. Her rigid

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attitude was beginning to perplex me.
I could see her smiling in the half

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darkness. She had wound about her
a filmy robe, which made her appear

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almost unreal. It confused me to
see a model stand so long. I

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spoke to her, She did not
answer. I dared not do more,

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for fear that she would disappear again
from my vision. Hounded by my dream,

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I picked up my brush again.
The hours fell away from me like

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leaves from a tree and fall.
I was creating the greatest thing ever known,

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the soul of a mummified queen.
Who shall know what I might have

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done had it not grown suddenly dark. The moonlight passed out of my window.

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I threw on the electricity in its
glow. I looked at her.

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She did not move. I threw
myself at her feet. I implored her

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to speak, to rest, to
do anything, rather than persevere in the

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coldness and calm. Without thinking,
I touched her hand. It was cold

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as ice. I drew back.
A terrible suspicion entered my mind. It

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was the queen herself, the mummified
body. I find it hard to write

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now. Light mist before my eyes, Rivers of sound curtain me. I

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paint fiercely. Still, she moves
not. I have torn her to pieces.

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I am groping for the air.
Strange hands are about my throat.

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I have tottered here to throw this
paper. I I cannot see. This

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document may throw some light on the
fact that in the studio they found the

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large plaster model of a woman,
broken into many pieces. It had been

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delivered by mistake the day before Ralph's
death and belonged to the art class on

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the floor above the End of the
Living Dead by Seymour le Moyne,