Robert E. Howard's 1930 story, first published in Weird Tales, opens with a four-line verse that warns of “the Judas kiss / Of a dead man in the dark.” This poem sets an expectation of supernatural betrayal, yet the prose that follows adopts a deliberately mundane tone. The narrative begins with Dr. Stein and Falred discussing the practicalities of a deathwatch over the body of the reclusive Adam Farrel. The doctor’s comment that sitting up with the dead is “a useless and primitive custom” frames the vigil as a social obligation rather than a source of terror. Falred’s initial dismissal of superstition—he claims to “scarcely” be superstitious—positions him as a rational observer, but his involuntary shudder at the memory of touching Dr. Stein’s rubber gloves hints at a deeper unease. The gloves, described as “slick, cold, clammy things, like the touch of death,” become a recurring sensory detail that links the clinical to the macabre.

A Confined Vigil and Shifting Perspective

The story’s setting is deliberately restricted: a single room containing a bed, a chair, a rough table, and a dim lamp. This claustrophobic space forces the reader to share Falred’s limited viewpoint. Howard uses the protagonist’s idle thoughts to build atmosphere. Falred contemplates why corpses inspire fear, attributing it to “unthinking ignorance” and a reminder of mortality. He dismisses local rumors of miser-hoarded wealth, showing no interest in prying. This lack of curiosity is notable—it suggests that the real threat is not external but psychological. As the night wears on, Falred’s casual reading is interrupted by a growing awareness that every time he looks at the sheeted form, his reaction changes. The narrative shifts from external observation to internal sensation, a technique that mirrors the gradual encroachment of dread.

The Tactile Horror of Rubber Gloves

Howard invests an ordinary object—rubber gloves—with visceral horror. Falred watches Dr. Stein remove his gloves “with an interest that almost amounted to fascination.” The gloves are described as “slick, cold, clammy,” and their touch is equated with death itself. This detail recurs later in the story, becoming a touchstone for Falred’s mounting anxiety. The gloves serve as a bridge between the rational world of medicine and the irrational fear of contamination by the dead. They also highlight a key theme: the fear of contact. Falred’s shudder is involuntary, a physical response that his conscious mind cannot control. By focusing on a single, tangible object, Howard grounds the supernatural in the sensory, making the threat feel immediate and personal.

Pace and the Unseen Threat

The story’s pace is deliberately slow, mirroring the long hours of a vigil. Howard alternates between Falred’s mundane actions—reading, resting his eyes, contemplating—and sudden, sharp intrusions of the uncanny. The narrative rhythm is established early: a calm observation is followed by a detail that unsettles. For example, Falred’s lazy speculation about human nature is interrupted by the memory of the gloves. This pattern creates a sense of unease that accumulates rather than erupts. The reader, like Falred, is never sure when the next disturbance will come. The story’s brevity (around 5,000 words) means that every sentence carries weight. Howard uses repetition of key phrases—such as “the touch of death”—to reinforce the central motif without overexplaining. The result is a tight, atmospheric tale that relies on suggestion rather than explicit horror.

Readers approaching this story should pay close attention to Howard’s use of sensory details, particularly touch and sight. The narrative voice is that of a rational man slowly losing his certainty, and the story’s power lies in what is left unsaid. The opening poem is a promise that the prose will fulfill, but not in the way one might expect. The horror here is not in gore or monsters, but in the gradual erosion of the protagonist’s composure. For those familiar with Howard’s adventure fiction, this tale offers a different kind of tension—one built on stillness and the weight of a single, silent room.