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The murderer's hair lifted at the back of his neck. Alone in the pitch-dark room, he felt a crawling sensation down his spine. Something moved in the darkness. The room reeked of burnt smokeless powder, and he could still smell the cigarette he'd left burning earlier. He'd come back for a crucial piece of evidence, but now something seemed alive in the room—a playful, unseen presence that thrived on his terror. He'd killed his miserly uncle, but had he truly escaped?
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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE MURDERER by Murray Leinster
Originally published in Weird Tales, January 1930.
Published by Black Cat Weekly.
blackcatweekly.com
The murderer’s hair lifted at the back of his neck. A crawling sensation spread down his spine. There was something moving in the room! It was pitch-dark, with vague rectangles of faint grayishness where windows opened upon the rainy night outside. The murderer had left this room half an hour before, maybe only twenty minutes before. He’d gone plunging away through the darkness, knowing that before dawn the rain would have washed away the tire-tracks of his car. And then he’d remembered something. He’d come back to pick up a thing he’d left, the only thing that could possibly throw suspicion upon him. And there was something moving in the room!
His scalp crawled horribly. He had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering audibly…. He heard the sound again! Something alive in the room. Something furtive and horrible and—and terribly playful! It was amused, that live thing in the room. It was diverted by the one gasp of pure terror he had given at the first sound it made.