I doubt it very much. The drums, they stopped. They were beginning to get on my nerves. The natives have surrounded Leroux’s hut. There’s only one way to get along with them, don’t interfere. HIM MAKE BOKOR CHANT. Leroux’s dead. They’re going to take him away and turn him into a zombie. For centuries the natives had practiced weird customs. Just a minute doctor. Around here they call them the walking dead. I don’t trust those devils tonight. We’ll take a chance & try to bust in on their ceremony. I see the light of their torches. That poor girl, if she’s alive she must be out of her mind. Gently. There’s about 200 of them. Under normal circumstances they’re quiet & peaceful. Don’t move. Anything can happen. It’s a new chant, I don’t like it. GO HOME BAD STAY HERE. It’s the kill chant.
The black island of Haiti. The man on the porch greets him. I’m the manager of the plantation. The caretaker’s in the cottage. He’s still alive but I don’t think there’s much I can do for him. Hit over the head with a bailing spool. The natives are certain Leroux killed that beggar. hear that? It’s the death wail. You can’t kill people by beating drums & wiggling. You can call it voodoo or black magic, but it’s there. Graveyard dirt can maim & kill. Dried & powdered lizard. Maybe there’s something about graveyard dirt.