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It was the next day that Jean telephoned me.

“Mart,” she said, “we’re going to run over a scene for Red Thirst tonight at the studio—Stage 6. You’ve been assigned as assistant director for the pic, so you should be there. And—I had an idea Jack might not tell you. He’s been—so odd lately.”

"Thanks, honey,” I said. “I’ll be there. But I didn’t know you were in the flicker.”

“Neither did I, but there’s been some wire-pulling. Somebody wanted me in it—the chevalier, I think—and the big boss phoned me this morning and let me in on the secret. I don't feel up to it, though. Had a bad night.”

“Sorry,” I sympathized. “You were okay when I left you.”

“I had a—nightmare,” she said slowly. “It was rather frightful, Mart. It’s funny, though, I can’t remember what it was about. Well—you’ll be there tonight?”

I said I would, but as it happened I was unable to keep my promise. Hess Deming telephoned me, asking if I’d come out to his Malibu place and drive him into town. He was too shaky to handle a car himself, he said, and Sandra’s cremation was to take place that afternoon. I got out my roadster and sent it spinning west on Sunset. In twenty minutes I was at Deming's beach house The houseboy let me in, shaking his head gravely as he recognized me. “Mist’ Doming pretty bad,” he told me. “All morning drinking gin straight—”

From upstairs Hess shouted, “That you, Mart? Okay—I’ll be down right away. Come up here, Jim!”

The Japanese, with a meaningful glance at me, pattered upstairs.

I wandered over to a table, examining the magazines upon it. A little breeze of wind came through the half-open window, fluttering a scrap of paper. A word on it caught my eye, and I picked up the note. For that’s what it was. It was addressed to Hess, and after one glance I had no compunction about scanning it. “Hess dear,” the message read. “I feel I’m going to die very soon. And I want you to do something for me. I’ve been out of my head, I know, saying things I didn’t mean. Don’t cremate me, Hess. Even though I were dead I’d feel the fire—I know it. Bury me in a vault in Forest Lawn—and don’t embalm me. I shall be dead when you find this, but I know you’ll do as I wish, dear. And alive or dead, I'll always love you.”

The note was signed by Sandra Colter, Hess’s wife. This was (Kid. I wondered whether Hess had seen it yet.

There was a little hiss of indrawn breath from behind me. It was Jim, the houseboy. He said, “Mist’ Prescott, I find that note last night. Mist’ Hess not seen it. It Mis’ Colter’s writing.”

He hesitated, and I read fear in his eyes—sheer, unashamed fear. He put a brown forefinger on the note.

“See that, Mist’ Prescott?”

He was pointing to a smudge of ink that half obscured the signature. I said, “Well?”

“I do that, Mist’ Prescott. When I pick up the note. The ink—not dry.”

I stared at him. He turned hastily at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Hess Deming was coming down, rather shakily.

I think it was then that I first realized the horrible truth. I didn't believe it, though—not then. It was too fantastic, too incredible; yet something of the truth must have crept into my mind, for there was no other explanation for what I did then.

Hess said, “What have you got there, Mart?”

“Nothing,” I said quietly. I crumpled the note and thrust it into my pocket. “Nothing important, anyway. Ready to go?”

He nodded, and we went to the door. I caught a glimpse of Jim staring after us, an expression of—was it relief?—in his dark, wizened face.

The crematory was in Pasadena, and I left Hess there. I would have stayed with him, but he wouldn't have it. I knew he didn't want anyone to be watching him when Sandra’s body was being incinerated. And I knew it would be easier for him that way. I took a short cut through the Hollywood hills, and that’s where the trouble started.

I broke an axle. Recent rains had gullied the road, and I barely saved the car from turning over. After that I had to hike miles to the nearest telephone, and then I wasted more time waiting for a taxi to pick me up. It was nearly eight o’clock when I arrived at the studio.

The gateman let me in, and I hurried to Stage 6. It was dark. Cursing under my breath, I turned away, and almost collided with a small figure. It was Forrest, one of the cameramen. He let out a curious squeal, and clutched my arm.

“That you, Mart? Listen, will you do me a favor? I want you to watch a I uint—”

“Haven’t time,” I said. “Seen Jean around here? I was to—”

“It’s about that,” Forrest said. He was a shriveled, monkey-faced little chap, but a mighty good cameraman. “They’ve gone—Jean and Hardy and the chevalier. There’s something funny about that guy.”

"Think so? Well, I’ll phone Jean. I’ll look at your rushes tomorrow.”

“She won’t be home,” he told me. “The chevalier took her over to the 1 uovc Listen, Mart, you’ve got to watch this. Either I don’t know how to handle i runder any more, or that Frenchman is the damnedest thing I’ve ever shot, come over to the theater. Mart I’ve got the reel ready to run. Just developed the rough print myself.”

“Oh, all right,” I assented, and followed Forrest to the theater.

I found a seat in the dark little auditorium, and listened to Forrest moving about in the projection booth. He clicked on the amplifier and said: "Hardy didn’t warn any pictures taken—insisted on it, you know. But the boss told me to leave one of the automatic cameras going—not to bother with the sound—just to get an idea how the French guy would screen. Lucky it wasn’t one of the old rattler cameras, or Hardy would have caught on. Here it comes, Mart!”

I heard a click as the amplifier was switched off. White light flared on the screen. It faded, gave place to a picture—the interior of Stage 6. The set was incongruous—a mid-Victorian parlor, with overstuffed plush chairs, gilt-edged paintings, even a particularly hideous what-not. Jack Hardy moved into the range of the camera. On the screen his face seemed to leap out at me like a death’s-head, covered with sagging, wrinkled skin. Following him came Jean, wearing a tailored suit—no one dresses for rehearsals—and behind her—

I blinked, thinking that my eyes were tricking me. Something like a glowing fog—oval, tall as a man—was moving across the screen. You’ve seen the nimbus of light on the screen when a flashlight is turned directly on the camera? Well—it was like that, except that its source was not traceable. And, horribly, it moved forward at about the pace a man would walk.

The amplifier clicked again. Forrest said, “When I saw it on the negative I thought I was screwy, Mart. I saw the take—there wasn’t any funny light there—”

The oval, glowing haze was motionless beside Jean, and she was looking directly at it, a smile on her lips. “Mart, when that was taken, Jean was looking right at the French guy!”

I said, somewhat hoarsely, “Hold it, Forrest. Right there.”

The images slowed down, became motionless. Jean’s profile was toward the camera. I leaned forward, staring at something I had glimpsed on the girl’s neck. It was scarcely visible save as a tiny, discolored mark on Jean's throat, above the jugular—but unmistakably the same wound I had seen on the throat of Jack Hardy the night before!

I heard the amplifier click off. Suddenly the screen showed blindingly white, and then went black.

I waited a moment, but there was no sound from the booth.

“Forrest,” I called. “You okay?”

There was no sound. The faint whirring of the projector had died. I got up quickly and went to the back of the theater. There were two entrances to the booth, a door which opened on stairs leading down to the alley outside, and a hole in the floor reached by means of a metal ladder. I went up this swiftly, an ominous apprehension mounting within me.

Forrest was still there. But he was no longer alive. He lay sprawled on his back, his wizened face staring up blindly, his head twisted at an impossible angle. It was quite apparent that his neck had been broken almost instantly.

I sent a hasty glance at the projector. The can of film was gone! And the door opening on the stairway was ajar a few inches.

I stepped out on the stairs, although I knew I would see no one. The white-lit broad alley between Stages 6 and 4 was silent and empty.

The sound of running feet came to me, steadily growing louder. A man came racing into view. I recognized him as one of the publicity gang. I hailed him.

“Can’t wait,” he gasped, but slowed down nevertheless.

I said, “Have you seen anyone around here just now? The—Chevalier Futaine?”

He shook his head. “No, but—” His face was white as he looked up at me. “Hess Deming’s gone crazy. I’ve got to contact the papers.”

Ice gripped me. I raced down the stairs, clutched his arm.

“What do you mean?” I snapped. “Hess was all right when I left him. A bit tight, that’s all.”

His face was glistening with sweat. “It’s awful—I’m not sure yet what happened. His wife—Sandra Colter—came to life while they were cremating her. They saw her through the window, you know—screaming and pounding at the glass while she was being burned alive. Hess got her out too late. He went stark, raving mad. Suspended animation, they say—I’ve got to get to a phone, Mr. Prescott!”

He tore himself away, sprinted in the direction of the administration buildings.

I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. It was the note I had found in Hess Deming’s house. The words danced and wavered before my eyes. Over and over I was telling myself, “It can’t be true! Such things can’t happen!”

I didn’t mean Sandra Colter’s terrible resurrection during the cremation. That, alone, might be plausibly explained—catalepsy, perhaps. But taken in conjunction with certain other occurrences, it led to one definite conclusion—and it was a conclusion I dared not face.

What had poor Forrest said? That the chevalier was taking Jean to the Cocoanut Grove? Well—

The taxi was still waiting. I got in.

“The Ambassador,” I told the driver grimly. “Twenty bucks if you hit the green lights all the way.”