46xxxx (002) The Man Who Was Death

Yes, this is the place for it. Deep down under the city, under the earth. The concrete cold and dampens the stone of a mausoleum. The question is, which one of them shall it be? You sir, you with the gray hair in the briefcase. Allow me to introduce myself. I am death.

Midnight, the witching hour when the night is darkest, our fears the strongest, and our strength at its lowest end. Midnight, when the gravescape open and death, you learn the answer in just a minute, in the man who was death.

Murder at Midnight, Tales of Mystery and Terror by Masters of the Macabre. Our story by Robert Newman is... The man who was dead. It's late afternoon in the studio of Jan Roth, the sculptor. The rays of the setting sun come through the smoke-filled glass of the skylight at an angle, casting long dark shadows on the dusty floor.

This face-intense, Roth stands before a more-than-life-sized head of great granite, cutting away some of the hard stone, then pausing to examine his work. It's still not right. I still haven't got it. And I don't know where I've gone wrong.

The eyes. They would be brooding and half-closed. But shouldn't they be all seeing? Let's try it. Who's that? Who's there? Elaine? Oh, yes. Just a second. What is it, Elaine? I told her I wouldn't be able to get here until late, Mr. Raw.

That I was going to be modeling for Clayton in the early afternoon. But you said it didn't matter. Oh, yes, I forgot. If you don't need me, don't feel like work. No, no, it's, it's, it's all right.

Maybe it would help if I worked on something else for a change. Come on in. Something else? Oh, that, that hit. Is that the first time you've seen it? Yes. You always kept it covered up before.