Everybody dies, don't they?

Everybody come back, isn't that certain?

You tried to get into the locked drawn today, didn't you?

How do the dead comeback, mother?

What's the secrets of dead company?

Bad Company by Walter Dillamere.

It's very seldom that one encounters what would appear to be sheer unadulterated evil in a human face.

An evil, I mean, active, deliberate, deadly, dangerous. Folly, heedlessness,

vanity, pride, craft, meanness, stupidity, yes. But even Yago's in this world are few,

and devilry is as rare as witchcraft. One winter's evening some little time ago, bound on a visit to a friend in London, I found

myself on the platform of one of its many subterranean railway stations.

It is an ordeal that one may undergo as seldom as one can.

The glare and glitter, the noise, the very air one breathes affects

nerves and spirits. One expects vaguely strange meetings in such surroundings. On this occasion,

the expectation was justified. The mind is at times more attentive than the nigh, already

tired and troubled with personal cares and problems

which a little wisdom and enterprise should have refused to entertain. I had seated myself

and one of the low wooden benches to the left of the entrance to the platform, when, for no conscious

reason, I was prompted to turn my head in the direction of a fellow-traveller, seated across

the gangway on the fellow to my bench at some few yards away. What was wrong with him? He was

enveloped in a loose cape or cloak, somber and motionless. He appeared to be wholly unaware of my

abrupt scrutiny. And yet I doubt it.

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