The Again, the World Adventures Club welcomes you. Its members, men of courage and daring, have heard many strange tales at these meetings. But at this particular time, they sense a new element in the air, mysterious, uncanny. Let us join the group around Benjamin Sharp, who has but recently returned from Haiti. And so, Mr. Sharp, you say that Haiti has left her mark on you. Yes. Haiti is a dark mother of mysteries from Port-au-Prince to Cape Haitian. Most white men don't reach the first outpost of a holy of holies, for they are prone to laugh at her belief. You know, the island must be fertile ground for adventure, Ben. Some parts of it are fertile, Mr. Jones. Haiti is a land of opposites, a geographical jekyll and hide. I don't understand that. In part, she is a tumbling, towering, mad land of paradise and inferno. In one mood, she shows you the unearthly beauty of coral strands cooled by emerald comers. On the other hand, there are her terrible jungles of tangled growth and stark deserts where cacti squirms from the pastures like tortured snakes. Good heavens, what a description! Ah, but it is Haiti. Once you've seen her, spent some time in her mysteries, you can never forget her. Never forget her. Oh, that sounds like there might be a story lurking in those memories. Well, I should say so. Come on out with us, have it. I have a grim one for you, gentlemen. I warn you. Oh, fine. The grimmer, the better. Very well, then. We shall go to the heart of Haiti, Mont Noir, or the Black Mountain. The scenery is startling, to say the least. Ebony canyons drop a sheer two or three thousand feet. That sounds like a good location for murder. Strange rumours brought my superior, John Lansing and myself, to the Mont Noir country. There were whispers that a half-breed landowner, Monsieur Gounod, was mistreating the natives who worked for him. This gossip spread so quickly that the government sent us to investigate this man. We had but the briefest information to work on, and determined to present ourselves as writers seeking information on native life. It was late in the afternoon when we finally arrived at his place, and we learned from his servant that Gounod was down in the cane fields with his men, but that he would soon return as he always brought them in before dark. Accordingly, we made ourselves comfortable on the veranda. From all that I hear, this Gounod was a pretty tough customer, Ben. We must be careful just how we approach him. Remember, we must have actual proof before we can arrest him. In other words, be ready for anything. By the way, where is that servant? Don't worry about him. I think he's back in the kitchen. Besides, I doubt if he understands English, working for Gounod as he does. Gounod. That name has haunted me ever since we left Port-au-Prince. It's very familiar to me. He's well known there. A bad reputation. No, no, I don't mean in connection with this job. There's something else. Montanois brings a faint echo of it to my memory. Rim. Forbidden. Nonsense. Now you're letting your imagination run away with you. Can't do that in Haiti. The truth is strange enough. What do you mean, Mr. Lending? Oh, I've heard all sorts of tales during my years on the island. Voodoo, white magic, black magic, and necromancy. Necromancy? Yes, a peculiar cult. Orthodox members of the leg band of Petro Voodoo won't have anything to do with it. Why not? It all sounds the same to me. No, necromancy is black magic. In other words, it's the use of a crop for magical purposes. What? Gruesome, isn't it? But the natives claim that a sorcerer can rob the grave of a newly buried body and give the corpse a mechanical semblance of life so that it will become his slave, either commit some crime for him or else work in his cane fields. They call these soulless bodies zombies. Zombies? Cane fields? Do know. For heaven's sake, what's wrong? That's the story I heard about this man, Lansing. They say he's a sorcerer and is using zombies as servants. Oh, come now, boy. One old woman said that she recognized her recently buried son working for a goon-o walking about doing his bidding. Take it easy, Ben. 80 has gotten under your skin. It's new. Now listen to me. As long as I've been here, I've never seen anything that even approached a zombie. Do you understand? Not once. But that doesn't prove anything. Your duties have confined you to Port-au-Prince. But can't you see that back in here, there may be mysteries that we know nothing about? And besides that, if there are no living dead, why did that old woman recognize her son? Here come the goon-o and his men now. See? Heads down and feet dragging. Poor devils. The rumors of mistreatment must be correct. They're moving like a tomatine. Look. One is raising his head. Good God, Lansing. Look at his eyes. Staring, unseeing, and the others. All of them like dead men walking. For God's sake, keep your head, boy. Gouno has seen us. Arrest him. Who are you? Monsieur Gouno. Lansing is my name. This is Mr. Sharp. We are writers and understood that you could give us a good deal of valuable information about Haiti. The fine egg or the fine blank? What is that? The affairs of the negro are not for the white. You are lying, Mr. Lansing. What do you mean by that? Exactly what I say. You and this boy have come down from Port-au-Prince to investigate my treatment of the natives. The natives. Well, now at least we won't have to conceal our hand, Monsieur Gouno. Very true. And that is why I allowed you to reach me. I am king of Montmore. I could have stopped you before, you know. My spies are everywhere. But I need two more workers. What do you mean? I mean that I am going to make zombies of you. Zombies? You see, Lansing, I told you. Those poor dumb brutes over there. He's going to make us like them. Bravo, bravo. You evidently know what zombies are. You are a madman, Gouno. Now listen to me. Enough, Louis. We compare. You have the blanks guns quite safe. We compare. Our guns, they're gone. My host is empty. May we? My Louis is very smart, very light-fingered. Why you... Look out, Monsieur. Be careful what you do. You are very foolish, Monsieur, to try and escape from Louis and me. Besides, there are all my zombies to stop you. Oh, he's insane, Lansing. Mad. Not as mad as you are foolish. But no matter, your brains are of no use to me. Nor your souls. I will remedy that. When your bodies are empty of soul, life, then you will work for me. I will teach you to work for me. If you are planning to murder us, Gouno, slaughter us for some insane idea, the police will have you in a fortnight. They have allowed us so much time to return in. If we don't show up, they'll come after us and find you no matter where you hide. Me? I? You give my intelligence scant credit, my friend. If the police come, my zombies will be far away, working. And you amongst them. Let me see. Perhaps I shall stain your skins with walnut juice so that you will not attract attention. You fiend. Ben, try to free yourself. It's better to hear this madman. Louis, the scarf is on the floor. Quick. No, I don't want those others to hear. Mon Dieu. But these blanches die hard. I tell you, fool, before the others hear too much. Compris, the dead men are walking behind you. The zombies, the zombies. No, no. Marcher, vite along. Fais-le moi. Keep away from me. Keep away from me. Why you attack me? Lansing, the zombies are killing Guno. They're living men, Ben. Living men. Freaks. Got it. It's horrible. And were the zombies living men, Mr. Sharp? I think so. Nothing could stop them when they came to our aid. My brain reeled as I saw them shuffling toward us. Expressionless. Daring. They had terrific strength. For they killed Guno and his servant like a terrier killed a rat and then tossed it aside. Then they turned toward Mount Noir and left us without another look. Why do you think they turned on Guno and saved you? Well, that is an important link in the mystery of the origin, gentlemen. Remember, Guno ordered his servant to kill us quickly. He may have surmised that our cries and struggles would strike some responsive chord in the hearts of the workers. You mean? Yes. Since our cries did move them, it is almost conclusive proof that they were not zombies, but idiots. I remember the face of a dog I had seen in the histological department of the museum. Its entire front brain had been removed in an experimental operation, but the animals still lived. And its eyes were like those of Guno's workers. Then the madman, Guno, took advantage of these poor people and made them his slaves. Exactly. But in spite of all explanations, I can never forget that the islanders swear that they sometimes recognize their dead working in the cane fields. Why else does one see graves by busy thoroughfares or under solid tombs of masonry? The Haitian believes in necromancy. He tries to protect his dead. But of course, that's all nonsense, ignorant on the part of the natives. Perhaps. But we all know that we are surrounded by mysteries and imagine that by giving them names we explain them. But aren't we fooling ourselves? Mr. Sharp has certainly left a question in the minds of his listeners. He was right in saying that Haiti is the dark mother of mysteries. Join these soldiers of fortune at their next meeting and listen to another strange adventure in strange land. Accept the invitation to our meeting.