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Speaker 1: Darkness by Charles Hilend Craig I am told that coincidence

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in a story is an element for which editors and

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readers have a dislike, which approaches the sparkling. But if

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a story be thirty three and a third percent of

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each coincidence imagination on the part of the principal character

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and irony, what then Coincidence, which is another name for destiny,

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played its trump early in the life of Graham Fletcher,

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in fact, before his life began, but it was many

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years before the stakes were dragged across the table of

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life and into the lap of a sneering fate. He

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had all started when his father, John Fletcher, was carried

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home after a terrific explosion in which he lost an

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arm and the sight in two perfectly good eyes. His

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young wife fainted at the horror of it, and only

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a week later Graham Fletcher was born into the world.

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While on the wall opposite the mother's bed, a dread

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phantom played hide and seek with the tremendous human eye,

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the half of which was missing, And the years which

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followed baared mute witness that in that terrible hour a

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gargantuan fear was transmitted to the soul of young Fletcher

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a fear of blindness. Two. The daily sight of his

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stricken father had its influence upon the boy as he

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passed through his early youth blindness indelibly there was seared

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on his brain, the fear of it, the horror of it.

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It was when he was fourteen that a prophecy was

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made about him. Now the fortune teller had given ample

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proof that she was just as elaborate a liar as

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the average fortune teller is supposed to be. She didn't

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try to tell his fortune in the orthodox way, however,

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in fact, he didn't want her to tell it. It

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so happened that young Graham was just as full of

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old nick as any boy. It seemed human nature to him, then,

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to hurl pebbles at the horse tied behind the gypsy's wagon.

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He meant no real harm, but that did not prevent

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a jagged pebble from striking an eye of one of

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the horses in such a manner as to cause the

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animal to scream fearfully, while blood spurted from the injured optic.

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The wrath of the woman fell upon the boy. Hoarsely.

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She spoke to him in broken English for that you pay. Hey,

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see you blind this horse. One day you be blind too,

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then you die. No doubt she would have done more

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than prophesy had it not been for the crowd near

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at hand. But it was more than enough. She had

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set her mark upon the so of young Graham Fletcher.

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He would not forget. And so was another coincidence born

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almost an inexcusable one. The years passed deeper and deeper

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into the being of Graham Fletcher pushed that phantom of unrest.

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He had gone home crying after the incident with the

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fortune teller, but he was never to forget. It was

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shortly after that that his imagination began to work. Overtime.

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He had bad dreams. That was the first development. In

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these dreams, he saw a hideous old hag with vulpine

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features and hawk like claws striving to reach his face

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his eyes. Bad dreams at night, if continued, easily, give

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rise to day dreams. Now, day dreams are supposed to

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be pleasant. They are if you sleep well. But Graham

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Fletcher didn't, and so he began to see things even

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in the day. Many things happened which increased his fear.

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There was the time a hard bodied little bug got

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into his eye. It sickened him, but his terror overcame.

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Even the feeling of nausea. A life in utter dark,

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such as that his father was leading, stared him in

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the face. He was afraid. Of course, there had been

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other incidents. Once he had tried to play football, a

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rough tackle which resulted in a black eye, put the

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taboo upon that forever. Then there was the incident of

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the automobile race, when a driver ran through the fence

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and a splinter of board struck Fletcher in the face,

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breaking his glasses and cutting a deep gash under the

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left eye. The whole world, it seemed, was conspiring to

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do with the sight of Graham Fletcher. Thereafter, he never

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attended the races, and though he needed spectacles, he never

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wore them. Fletcher, of course, had his recurrent nightmare. Strange

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to relate. The old gipsy woman failed to appear again. Instead,

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it was something intangible yet quite real, which oppressed him.

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The change made it all the more certain he was doomed.

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He never could figure out his illusion satisfactorily. Sometimes he

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seemed to be crushed under a weight that all the

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power of the world could not move. Again, it seemed

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that he was dropped through infinite space, always though there

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was a sense of his eyes being dragged out of him.

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At first, his awakenings would be with tears, Then as

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he grew older, he would awaken in a state of cold,

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clammy sweat. After the dream, there was little sleep for

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him again the same night. It was when he was

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nineteen that he felt claws on his eyes. Thereafter, he

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left the light burning in his room when he went

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to bed. It was only natural that Fletcher should try

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to find things to keep him occupied, so that he

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would have no time to think of his illusions. He

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kept busy, but the phantoms continued to come. He welcomed

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with avidity the chance to go into the north Woods

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for a short stay with two friends. For a time,

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Fletcher was so busily engaged in the hunt that he

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forgot his troubles. All would have gone well, perhaps, had

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he not been left alone That night in the cabin,

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Jones and Gordon tramped over to the station together to

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get supplies. They promised to be back before dark, and

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Fletcher had no premonition of impending disaster. During the afternoon,

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he had hiked through the woods and later wrote several letters.

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It was when the shadows became a bit flickery that

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Graham Fletcher felt the chill of the bitter cold creep

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through him. Twilight fell. The black shadow among the trees

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had arms, now arms that groped for him, blind arms.

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They were blind. He fled to the safety of the cabin.

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For a few minutes, the light gave him comfort. Then

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he saw the shadows in the cabin, shadows that moved.

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He jerked open the cupboard and took down a flat bottle.

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He tasted the liquid, drank. He tried to read, but

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the shadows kept creeping up one side of the page.

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The shadows sometimes they seemed to form claws, claws that

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reached for his eyes. He drank again and again. Then

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he decided that his partners had stayed over at the station,

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so he went to bed, leaving the light burning on

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the table. He put the flashlight near him. His thoughts

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eased back over other days. He kept his mind from

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the specter, and finally fell asleep. He dreamed. This time

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a new trouble beset him. That bottle whiskey. He had

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read of a number of deaths resulting from the drinking

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of wood alcohol in liquor. Now he tossed feverishly, and

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after a while went to sleep again. The tall, old

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fashioned clock, to which he had paid scant attention, awakened

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him when it struck seven. He lay for a moment,

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thinking seven the sun would be up. And blackness was

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like a pall about him. It was thick, hideous. He

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could almost feel it, hear it, taste it. Blackness. Could

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it be that he had heard wrong? That it was

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still night? No where the lamp had been left burning

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on the table, he could see no light. A cry

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of agonized dismay burst from his lips. His senses reeled,

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but by a powerful effort of his will, he was

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able to reach the flashlight full into his eyes. He

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left it for a long minute. There was no answering glow. God,

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he said, Ah, fool that you are, Graham Fletcher. Had

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you but looked at the oil lamp, you would have

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realized that it would not burn more than an hour?

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And did you not throw away the useless battery in

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the flashlight? Yourself blind? You are not blind, Graham Fletcher,

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but you do not know this. You are moaning softly

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as you reach for the gun beside your bed. It

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is but the work of a moment to put the

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end of the barrel in your mouth and push the

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trigger with your toe. There destiny has raked the table

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clean once more. Jones and Gordon were appalled when they

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saw the body of the suicide stretched out on the floor.

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No possible motive made itself apparent to them. I suggest

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that this was a story or coincidence. There is but

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one thing more. It is for the friends to glance

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at the clock, note that it is five hours fast,

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and buy some hocus pocus, decide at what hour their

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friend took his own life. But they don't look, and

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therein is the irony. The clock will tick merrily on

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until it has run down. The End of Darkness by

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Charles Hill and Craig