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special haunts.”
    I looked around at the various large canvases that leaned against walls or were propped on easels, and then I experienced a freezing of the blood as my eyes fell upon a life-size reproduction of the awful tree that had once stood in the neglected necropolis and on which my uncle had ended his life.  I could not resist the compulsion to go to the enormous canvas and touch it, to study the structure of the outré tree, so perfectly replicated; and I felt a kind of sickness as I studied its sinister pale vines that seemed like the writhing veins of some unfathomable chimera.  “It’s no longer there,” spoke a husky voice from one corner of the studio.  “Someone has destroyed it, there’s just a pile of white ashes where it used to stand.”  Turning to face the speaker, I confronted the small middle-aged woman who advanced through the flickering candlelight.  Her gray hair was worn short, and her black clothes spotted with paint and other stains.  “It was your relative who hanged himself from it, wasn’t it?”
    “It was.”
    “And you who destroyed it?”
    I turned to gaze at the painting again.  “Yes.” 
    Carter joined us, his expression dark.  “This is Julia Morgan Warren, grandniece of Harley Warren, the friend of my ancestor.  And this, dear Julia, is Hayward Phelps, author, haunter of graveyards – and avenger.”  He reached into his shoulder bag and brought forth my book.  “This is the collection of fantastic fiction that he has penned under the curious name of Deth Carter Hill – you really are obsessed with that place, aren’t you, old thing?  I suppose I should be honored that my fabulous persona inspired the creation of your lead story’s main character.  Of course, your fictive portrayal is an exaggeration although not quite a parody.”  I could not help but laugh, for the absurdity of my being there and listening to such talk came to me.  It was like having entered one of my own weird tales, and I liked it very much. 
    The painter nodded her thanks for the book, wiping her hands on an old rag before taking it from her friend.  “You wrote this in Elmer Harrod’s haunted house?”
    “Yes, which I inhabited eighteen months ago.  It was bequeathed to me by my uncle, may he rest in peace.  It’s really a remarkable place, containing as it does all of the belongings of the horror host.  I’ve been visiting it since my teenage years, and it has never lost its allure.  It never occurred to me that I would someday be able to live within its walls.”
    “Your uncle purchased it – from whom?”
    “I never knew.   He never said.  I tried to discover the circumstances, but apparently my uncle destroyed all papers concerning the transaction.  All very mysterious.  I’ve been unable to find any of Harrod’s relations, who might want to claim some of his library – some few of the books are quite rare and valuable.  From all I’ve learned about Harrod, he never made any mention of family, and none of his kindred ever came to call.  He lived in a world of his making, alone mostly, although he did enjoy entertaining stay-over guests.  Vincent Price stayed there one weekend.  I think he and Harrod shared an interest in art.”  As I spoke, I studied some of Miss Warren’s artistic tools which lay on a table near us.  One item was especially attractive, and so I took it up to examine it.
    “Isn’t that lethal tool amazing,” Carter opined.  “The handle is ivory, as you can see, with elegant decorative work in silver.  Be cautious opening it, for the blade is very sharp.  It was part of a Victorian mortuary kit that Julia purchased, and must have helped numberless corpses with their last shave.” 
    “This may interest you,” spoke the painter, motioning that I should follow her to a large canvas on which she had painted the house I had inherited, catching to perfection the Gothic aura of the place.  Yet she had enhanced its curious