Whispering Tunnels

Weird Tales - February 1925

A Devil Tail Of Verdun

This issue also contains The Statement of Randolph Carter by H. P. Lovecraft

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Summons for Satan

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Spicy Mystery Stories - November 1937
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This entire issue can be downloaded here

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The High Side

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Satan’s Outlaws — hellbent for kicks, they played tag with death and took all their curves on the — High Side

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The Horror In The Studio

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A gripping story of the film industry
What Weird Terror Lurks Behind The Scenes In Hollywood?

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The Devil Loves Me / Down Among The Dead Men

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Two Complete Detective Books November 1943
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The Devil Loves Me

The wedding was so gay—such a colorful occasion—why was the bridesmaid poisoned? Dr. Paul Prye, psychoanalyst and amateur detective, was the groom. Why wasn’t he more upset? Duncan Stevens was the best man. Why was his skull caved in? There was another man—he got a bullet in his brain. And another—sandbagged and crammed into a rumble seat—say, what is this? A wedding? Or a funeral? What terrible and ghastly thing was footing its bloody way through that very nice house in that very nice section of Toronto? Truly, the Devil was in love with it, whatever it was. Dreadful premonitions were shaking the sixty-year-old bones of Aspasia O’Shaughnessy. And complete terror stalked the rest of the household. Except one. That one was redheaded. That one got mad . . . Inspector Sands could cut through red tape, could slash at the veil of snobbery drawn by the murderer. But he needed Paul Prye—and the one who got mad . . . 

Down Among The Dead Men

Plenty of dead ones get dragged out of the dark, roily water that runs through the greatest city in the world. The Harbor Police take only routine notice. But when the cadaver comes in installments—a torso, a leg, an arm—that’s murder . . . There are lots of murders, sure, but what made Lieutenant Steven Koski do a double-take on this particular butchery was the gadget that came with the torso. In its own frightful little way it was a weapon—the kind of weapon that kills a lot of people kind of quick. And Koski began to move—but fast. The murder marathon took him from a Coast Guard auxiliary vessel (cargo: one stunning blonde) to a waterfront dive. From a union leader’s hangout to an executive’s luxurious office. From a Chinese laundry to a ship being loaded with sudden death . . . And all the way, a long thin shape, detestable and horrible, paced him. Koski drove himself frantically onward. He had to catch that thing—had to . . .

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