The Place Called Dagon by Herbert Gorman

The burned mill stood in the bright moonlight, its charred door yawning on the road. It looked like the sun-dried skull of a buffalo resting forlornly on the dry sand of a parched plain. Yet about it were the trees shot through with a milky light and beyond it was the silver blade of the Saccarac River. Dreeme walked slowly through the door wondering if she would be waiting there for him. Inside he paused with a brief start of surprise and anger as his eyes located the figure in the broken embrasure. The moonlight flowed in crystal over a cloven head bowed forward in a listening attitude. This shaven cranium seemed phosphorescent in the rich glow.

"Good evening, doctor," said Jeffrey Westcott. There was the hint of a grim levity in his voice. He stood up, his powerful arms swinging apelike at his sides, waiting for the young doctor to approach closer. Dreeme eyed him speculatively and without fear. Of course. He might have known if he had thought clearly enough about it.