Each Man Kills

Each Man Kills, by Victoria Glad

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Title: Each Man Kills
Author: Victoria Glad
Release Date: November 3, 2007 [EBook #23301]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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MAN KILLS ***

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Each Man Kills
BY VICTORIA GLAD
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales March
1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.

copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"... to live you must feed on the living"
Heading by Vincent Napoli
[Illustration]

Now that it's all over, it seems like a bad dream. But when I look at
Maria's picture on my desk, I realize it couldn't have been a dream.
Actually, it was only six months ago that I sat at this same desk,
looking at her picture, wondering what could have happened to her. It
had been six weeks since there had been any word from her, and she
had promised to write as soon as she arrived in Europe. Considering
that my future rested in her small hands, I had every right to be
apprehensive.
We had grown up together, had lost our folks within a few years of
each other and had been fond of each other the way kids are apt to be.
Then the change came: It seemed I loved her, and she was still just
"fond" of me. During our early college days I sort of let things ride, but
once we went on to graduate school, I began to crowd her.
The next thing I knew, she had signed up with a student tour destined
for Central Europe, and told me she would give me my answer when
she returned. I had to be content with that, but couldn't help worrying.
Maria was a strange girl--withdrawn, dreamy and soft-hearted.
Knowing the section she was going to, I was inclined to be uneasy,
since it is the realm of gypsies, fortune tellers and the like. It is also the
birthplace of many strange legends, and Maria claimed to be strongly
psychic. As a matter of fact, she had foretold one or two things which
were probably coincidental, like the death of our parents, and which
even made an impression on me--and you'd hardly call me a "believer."
This so-called talent of hers led her into trouble on more than one
occasion. I remember in her senior year at college she fell under the
spell of a short, fat, greasy spook-reader with a strictly phony accent

and all but gave her eye teeth away, until I realized something was
amiss, got to the bottom of it, and dispatched friend spook-reader
pronto. If she should meet some unscrupulous person now, with no one
around to get her out of the scrape--but I didn't want to think of that. I
was sure this time everything would be all right.
When she didn't write at first, I let it go that she was busy. Finally, six
weeks' silent treatment aroused my curiosity. It also aroused my nasty
temper, and the next thing I knew I was on a plane bound for the
Continent. Within two hours after landing, I found her at a little inn in
Transylvania, a quaint little place that looked as if it were made of
gingerbread, and was surrounded by the huge, craggy Transylvania
Mountain range. I also found Tod Hunter.
"What's wrong, Maria? Why didn't you write?" I asked.
Her usually gay, shining brown eyes flashed angrily. "Why couldn't
you leave me alone? I told you not to come after me. I came here so I
could think this out. For God's sake, Bill, can't you see I wanted to
think? To be by myself?"
"But you promised to write," I persisted, wondering at this change in
her, this impatience. Wondered, too, at her wraithlike slimness. She'd
always been curved in the right places.
"Maria has been studying much too diligently," Tod said slowly. "She's
always tired lately. She hasn't been too well, either. Her throat bothers
her."
* * * * *
I wanted to punch his head in. For some reason I didn't like him. Not
because I sensed his rivalry; I was above that. God knows I wanted her
to be happy, above everything. It was just something about him that
irritated me. An attitude. Not supercilious; I could have coped with that.
Rather, it was