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Weird Tales


...brooding on vengeance for over a thousand years

A Habit Out of History

By David Eynon

"I SAY. John, that's an odd looking I tower," said Henry Parkinson to his host, as they traversed the edge of the moor. "Why, it's positively Druid. Whatever is it tor?" It was twilight in the north of Wales and the two men worked slowly through the gorse until the shadow of the crude relic fell across their path.

"Ah? Ah, yes. Quite," said John, leading his guest from the path, stepping around the edge of the tower's deepening shadow. A last burst of sunlight etched the silhouette sharpiy on the rocky ground. "Druid. Definitely Druid."

"But it's in such excellent condition," marvelled Henry, with persistence. He al- most thought he heard voices coming from the top of the tower, but the Welsh wind plays tricks on strangers oftentimes.

"Hmmn," said John, glancing back over his shoulder. "I... ah... expect it's been kept up—or something." The two men had started down the hill, the shadowed side. Behind them the tower rose up against the evening sky like a scarred giant, its little slit eyes following their progress towards the valley below.

"Kept up? You don't say," Henry mused. "By whom?"

"A dozen monks," said John, halting at the end of their decline, breathing heavily.

"Really?" puffed Henry. "What in the world are they doing in a Druid tower?"

"Why, they're guarding the skull of a mad man," said John, quickening his steps as the manor lights came on one by one. They were soon inside the hall, with the butler taking their sticks and jackets. John led the way to the living room and port. The two men sat before a crackling fire. Henry waited until he could broach the subject again. His host beat him to the punch.

"I EXPECT you'll want to know more about it,"...

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