Mistress of the Undead

Mistress of the Undead
Lazar Levi
1940
For thirty minutes she lived. Thirty minutes she suffered while the
plane wreckage and dismembered human bodies burned around her.
And one year later she told her story!
"DEATH!"
Tim Blake whispered the single word as he gazed in horror at the
cuckoo clock on the mantel shelf. Fear contorted his rugged brown face
when he turned to John Turner.
"God, man, did you hear that?" he asked.
John Turner had heard nothing except striking of the clock, but he felt
strangely queer. An eerie silence followed as vibrations of the cuckoo's
mournful croaks died away slowly.
"What was it?" He managed to get words out of a dry throat.
"Hit struck seven," Tim replied, in nervous agitation, "and it's only six
o'clock. Death's acomin' to this here very house, and it's only a hour
away." He was trembling and beads of perspiration popped out on his
weather-beaten face.
From the next room there came a pitiful moan, hollow and weird. John
Turner thought it whining of the cold January windÑa wind that had
caused him to stop and warm at Tim Blake's shack on the edge of the
marsh before plodding on to the lodge, where he and three other duck
hunters were quartered for a week's shoot.
"Hit's the ole woman!" Tim Blake barely whispered the words. They

seemed to lodge, chokingly, in his throat.
"Is she ill?" Turner asked.
"Sick for nigh onto a month," Tim whispered. "An' she ain't got but a
hour to live by the clock." The old man's face twitched, revealing the
inward agony tearing at his gaunt body. He wrung his hands
pathetically.
"You don't believe that clock striking the wrong hour means anything,
do you?" Turner asked the backwoodsman.
"Hit ain't never done it but onct afore in all the fifty years me and
Nancy has been married," Tim Blake moaned. "Hit was the night the
Little City airyplane crashed and kilt all them people right out thar in
the swamp."
Warning of foreboding danger seemed to Turner to permeate the Blake
shack now, as Tim paced the floor. Turner stood up uneasily, ready to
make his escape from the room, which had become strangely cold and
bleak despite the red hot stove glowing in the semi-darkness.
"Yuh can do it!" Tim swung around and shouted at him. Turner stepped
back as the old man took long strides in his direction. Blake caught the
lapels of Turner's coat and shook him violently. "Fetch a doctor from
Lake Worth for Nancy," he shouted, excitedly. "If yuh hurry, yuh can
git 'im back here 'fore the hour is up, and it won't be too late. Fer God's
sake, hurry!"
John Turner wanted to refuse. It was a long way to Lake Worth by foot.
He had no way to ride. He wore rubber boots and was not accustomed
to walking. Most likely he couldn't get the doctor back in time.
"Yuh can't go back on me and Nancy," the old man pleaded, as Turner
hesitated. Tears were streaming down Tim Blake's face. "Death'll be
here in a hour. The clock's done said so. Hit done it a year ago, come
this very night, and thet thar airy- plane crashed right on the hour, with
nary a soul left alive to tell 'bout it."

"Sure, I'll go," Turner heard himself say, his own voice sounding queer
to him.
John Turner and Tim Blake had been good friends ever since Turner
started coming to the marsh duck hunting, but there was no reason why
he should go stumbling through the bitter cold to get a doctor for
Nancy Blake when it was impossible to get the physician back within
an hour. He had not wanted to make this promise, but the words slipped
off his tongue against his will.
Tim Blake shoved him toward the door and out into the open. It was
dark, with low clouds hanging ominously overhead. The wind, cutting
like sharp blades of ice, licked at Turner's hands and face as they
reached the gate.
"Hurry, man," Tim pleaded. "Hit's ten miles 'round the marsh, but yuh
can make it."
"I'll cut across the swamp and save time," Turner assured him as he
started walking away.
TIM caught him by the arm and jerked him around. His voice was
pleading and queer, as he begged.
"You can't make it that way, son. There ain't nary a man bin through
thar since them airyplane passengers was kilt in the swamp."
"I'm not afraid," Turner laughed, scornfully, but his voice was shrill
and uncontrollable.
"'Tain't that," Tim moaned. "Hit's the ghosts! They won't let a body past.
Fer God's sake, go 'round so's yuh'll be sartin to git thar 'fore too late."
"All right," Turner answered, impatiently.
He