g directly into the face of a man.

"God A'mi'ty," he gurgled, "it's the greener!" He leaned heavily
against the logs, plucking foolishly at the bark. His scalp tingled
from fright.

His mouth sagged open and the lolling, flabby tongue drooled thickly.
His face became a dull, bloodless gray, glistening glaireously with
clammy sweat, and his eyes dilated until they seemed bulging from their
sockets.

It seemed ages he stood there, staring in horrible fascination at the
man in the river--and then the man moved!

He was advancing slowly shoreward, with a curious limp, as he had
entered Burrage's store. Creed's ashen lips moved stiffly, and his
tongue seemed to fill his mouth.

"I've got 'em! I've got 'em," he maundered. "'S the booze, an' I'm
seein' things!"

His groping brain grasped at the idea, and it gave him strength--better
the "snakes" than _that_! But he must do something, the man was coming
toward him--only hip-deep now--

"Go 'way! Go 'way!" he shrieked in a sudden frenzy of action. "Damn
you! Y're dead! D'ye hear me! Go 'way from here!"

Suddenly his weakening knees stiffened under him, and he reached
swiftly for the rifle on the ground at his feet.

Slowly and deliberately he raised it, cocked it, rested it across a
log, and took deliberate aim at the center of the man's face--twenty
paces away.

"Bang!" The crack of the rifle sounded loud and sharp in the tense
stillness.

The apparition, at the water's edge, raised its hand slowly to its
lips, and from between its teeth took a small object which it tossed
toward the other. The object struck lightly against Creed's breast and
dropped to the ground.

He looked, downward--it was a 30-40 bullet--his own! He stared dumbly
at the thing on the ground. Then, automatically, he fired again, taking
careful aim.

Again the ghost's hand moved slowly toward its mouth, and again the
light tap upon his chest--and two bullets lay upon the ground at his
feet.

His head felt strange and large, and inside his skull things were
moving--long, gray maggots that twisted, and writhed, and squirmed,
like fishing worms in a can.

He laughed flatly, a senile, cackling laugh. He did not want to laugh,
but laughed again and, stooping, reached for the bullets. He stared at
his fingers, bewildered; they groped helplessly at a spot a foot from
the place where lay the two bullets with their shining steel jackets.

He must move his fingers to the right--this way. Again h