by Robert Bloch
“I don’t believe you, I don’t believe anything you’re saying—”
“They believe me.” I gazed out at the moonlit waters of the Cove beyond.
She followed my stare. “Don’t you see what’s happening?” I said, softly. “The yacht is moving. Juan raised the anchor. He believed what I told him. And he and the crew must have made up their minds. They aren’t going to wait until tomorrow. They aren’t waiting for us at all. They remembered what happened to Roberto and to Don and they want to get away.”
Dena gasped. “You’re right—the yacht is moving! What can we do?”
“We can watch,” I told her, calmly. “They want to get away. But they won’t. They don’t know what you know now—that I opened the lid. And its hunger is growing. Look!”
The moon was very bright over the water. And even at the distance of a mile we could see the bubbles rising, see the waves churning and boiling as something broke the surface just before the vessel. It was like a wave, like a waterspout, like a giant cuttlefish. And the tentacles tossed and twisted and twined about the prow, and the little yacht tilted, and then a black bulk emerged from the waters and swept across the deck. In the distance we could hear faint screams, and then Dena was screaming too as the boat careened over on its side and the huge black blob enveloped its white hull and bore it down, down—
The black bubbles disappeared, and there was only the soft and shimmering surface of the sea, glittering in the cold silver moonlight.
“The Marie Celeste,” I murmured. “And countless other ships. Countless other mortals in all climes, in all times. When the appetite waxes, it awakens. When it wanes, it subsides. But now the hunger grows again and it will come forth to feed. Not on the bodies alone, but on the being. It will glut on soul-substance, feast on the emotions and the psyche. First a ship, then a village, then a town, perhaps an entire island. And what is comparable to that knowledge? Does that slimy gold under the water or the tarnished gold of your body hold any allure for one who realizes his destiny at last? His destiny to serve a god?”
“Get away from me—I’ll go to Robales—”
I pinned her arms. “You will not go to José Robales. You will come with me. And I will summon it to the sacrifice.”
She screamed again, and I hit her with the heel of my hand across the back of the neck. It silenced her, but did not bruise her mouth or face. I knew it would be better if she was not marked. One does not bring spoiled fruit or withered flowers as an offering to the gods.
I carried her down the beach, then, in the moonlight. And I stripped her and staked her out upon the sand there at the water’s edge. She was silver and gold in the moonlight, and for a moment I coveted the treasure of her body’s richness. But I had spoken truly; this was as nothing to the knowledge of my destiny. I had found myself at last—I was meant to serve. To serve, and to summon.
I sent my thoughts out across the water and deep down. It was not difficult, not since I had opened the chest and let the blackness therein meet and mingle with my being. For already I was a part of it and it was a part of me. And I knew this was what it was searching for—not the crew, but the golden woman.
Now it would come to slake all hunger and all thirst. And my own appetite would be appeased in the sacrificial act.
I did not have long to wait. The bubbles burst near the shore and then it flowed forth. Larger now—for as it feasts, it grows. The black blur became a black cloud, the black cloud became a black blot, the black blot became a black body; a thousand writhing arms to caress her nakedness, a thousand pulsing lips to drink, a thousand hungry mouths to savor and to swallow.
And the blackness flowed over her whiteness and it was like an exploding ecstasy in which I was the ravisher and the ravished, the eater and the eaten, the victor and the victim, the watcher and the watched, and it was better than seeing Don, it was better than seeing the crew, and I knew it would keep getting more wonderful each time, the sensation stronger still as we kept feeding and growing, feeding and growing.
Yes, we.
Because when it was finished, and the blackness melted back into the rolling waters, leaving the beach bare before the moonlight, I knew that we would go on together.
There had been no altar this time, but that did not matter. We know nothing, care nothing for altars of gold. The bed is not the bride, the plate is not the meal. Anywhere and anytime, all that is necessary is soul and substance for the sacrifice. So that we can swallow and grow, swallow and grow.
I made our plans.
José Robales had warned me to keep the crew away from the natives in the little village behind the Cove. They were only ignorant savages, after all—probably not much better than the jungle natives who had reared the golden altar to a god. But they lived—and that is enough to us who drink life.
So I would summon the god again, tomorrow, the next day, soon. And it would come in its strength and take nourishment. Perhaps the villagers would bow down to it and then raise an altar of their own. Perhaps not. In the end, it couldn’t matter. Because in the end we would take them all.
And perchance José Robales might come to us. If not, in due season we would go to him.
Yes, in due season we would visit everyone on the island of Santa Rita. And our awareness would grow as we incorporated all the lives and all the learning and all the lusts. And our appetite would increase. And we would grow; grow in size, grow in power, grow in strength to satisfy our dark desires.
There need be no end. It is a small distance from island to island. And as we grow we can travel faster, seize more swiftly and surely. With us there is no time and no death—nothing to halt or to hinder.
The creature that swallows the world.
Why not?
From island to island, always growing. Then on to the mainland, to the swarming cities. It will feast and I will share, it will search and I will lead, it will rule and I will serve, for ever and ever.
And I have written it down now so that all may know the truth and decide whether to join in worship or serve us in another way—as subjects, sustenance for sacrifice.
The choice is yours, but make it swiftly. For I feel the urging of that black appetite, and soon we must go forth to ravage and raven across the world . . .
(Statement of José Robales, mayor.)
In the matter of the man Howard Lane, presently confined to await trial on the charge of murder, these facts are known.
The foregoing account was found, in the prisoner’s own hand, upon the desk in the study of his home, by Felipe and Alicia Martino, his servants.
The statement was handed to me when I visited his house early this morning, together with Officer Valdez, seeking to question him concerning the sinking of the yacht Rover, which event had been reported to me by certain natives of the village near Cut-Throat Cove.
Howard Lane being asleep, I first examined the above statement and then awakened him, formally charging him with the murder of Roberto Ingali, Donald Hanson, and the woman Dena Drake.
This he of course denied, but in such a manner as to permit only one supposition—that this account he had written truly represents his own belief as to what occurred.
It is evident that the prisoner suffers from a severe mental derangement, and I shall make it a point to see that he undergoes a complete examination before formally bringing him to trial. At the moment one can only conclude that he performed the crimes while in a state of unbalance, and—although it is not easy to determine the method—arranged for the sinking of the yacht.
Unfortunately there are as yet no witnesses who can testify to actually seeing the vessel go down, but the sudden disappearance of a seaworthy boat anchored in calm waters, coupled with the discovery this morning of timbers and bits of wreckage washed ashore in the Cove, permits of no other conclusion. It was undoubtedly Hanson’s boat.
The prisoner’s statement seems obviously the work of a mind obsessed with guilt, and it is to be hoped that he will recover sufficiently to
make a full and sensible confession.
Before wiring to summon a physician, I shall make it my business, as an official and as a former friend of Howard Lane, to visit him in the jail and urge that course upon him.
Indeed, I would have done so today, had it not been that the reports of the wreckage washed ashore occupied my time and attention until late this afternoon.
As it is now well into the evening, I will put off my interview until tomorrow morning.
It is to be admitted that one is shaken by this sad turn of events.
The spectacle of Howard Lane, my former friend and now my prisoner, in the grip of his delusions—shrieking threats and curses like a hysterical woman—disturbs one far more than I can indicate. Even now I hear him moaning in his cell below.
And it is sorrowful indeed to reflect upon the sudden tragedy which has visited our peaceful island.
As I sit here and gaze out across the calm waters of which the prisoner has written so vividly, I cannot reconcile this scene with such a chaos of murder and violence. As for the statement itself, absurd as it may seem to one still in full possession of his reason, there is a certain powerful if irrational logic about it—
Wait. The prisoner below is not moaning. He is shouting again, in measured cadences. It is as though he were chanting.
And the waters of the bay—
The moonlight is clear and I can see the black bubbles rising. They are moving closer to the shore, moving swiftly. And now I hear the screaming from the waterfront. They see it, they see it coming out of the water. It is black and immense, and it is slithering forward, it is coming to feast just as he said it would, it is coming to devour the w—
Philtre Tip
This 1961 tale dates itself with its sidelong reference to the then controversial hip-gyrations of Elvis Presley, “Elvis the Pelvis,” whom Ed Sullivan’s cameras would only show from the waist up! But other elements are typical of the period as well. The “old switcheroo” with the spiked glass, for example. And the structure of the story, beginning in medias res, already underway, with most of the water well under the bridge. A long history of the characters is filled in with swift strokes so that we are almost at the climax as soon as we begin the story. Many mystery stories in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine had the same form. For more of the same, check out pretty much any episode of the old “Alfred Hitchcock” TV show, adapted from such tales.
It comes as a surprise to spot a reference to our old friend the Cthulhu Mythos in this story. So far have the Lovecraft days receded into the past that the sudden appearance of Ludvig Prinn is pretty much an in-joke. The process of “demythologizing” we noted in the introduction to “Black Bargain” has gone all the way here. Prinn’s volume has become simply another medieval grimoire. In fact, that is all it is called. No more De Vermis Mysteriis, not even Mysteries of the Worm. Just plain old “Ludvig Prinn’s Grimoire”.
And of course “Philtre Tip” begins and ends with puns, one of Bloch’s trademarks. Bloch, here and elsewhere, has combined the old genres of the “deal with the devil” tale (especially the “read the fine print” subgenre) with the shaggy dog story. And “Philtre Tip” is certainly the doggiest, if not the shaggiest, of the bunch.
Philtre Tip
by Robert Bloch
Mark Thornwald had an obsession.
Now there is nothing wrong with having an obsession in our society, provided one chooses it wisely. The man who is obsessed with the desire to make money often becomes wealthy. Those who dedicate an entire existence to the pursuit of fame frequently are rewarded, and can deduct the clipping bureau’s fee from their income tax. Men who devote a lifetime to excel in athletic pursuit often wind up with a sizable collection of trophies, plus an occasional hernia.
But Mark Thornwald chose the wrong obsession.
Her name was Adrienne.
It is easy to deal with this particular obsession in terms of labels—mother-fixation, chemical attraction, love object, and the like.
Unfortunately, Thornwald wasn’t satisfied with labeling his obsession. He had other plans for Adrienne. With the sorry result that he wasn’t satisfied, period.
The first time he attempted to put his plans into action, Adrienne laughed at him. The second time, she slapped his face. The third time she threatened to call her husband and have Thornwald thrown out of the house.
Thornwald elected to leave quietly, hugging his obsession to his breast, nursing it on the juices of hatred and frustration. As a result, it grew enormously.
Since Adrienne’s husband, Charles, happened to be an associate professor of medieval history and since Thornwald was one of the regents of the university, it was no great trick to see that his contract was not renewed. After assuring himself that attrition had set in, Thornwald again approached Adrienne and made what he considered a handsome offer.
Adrienne thought both the offer and Thornwald quite ugly, and told him so. Again he retired in defeat, comforted only by the knowledge that she would never stoop to telling her husband.
Thornwald took stock of the situation. Of course, being obsessed, he did not consider matters realistically. When one is obsessed with avarice, one does not reflect upon the widows and orphans who may purchase the phony uranium stock; the seeker of fame at any price is quite willing to propel his pelvis in public or even run for Congress if needs be. And the man whose obsession takes a delectable, feminine form is equally lacking in ethics and scruples. To him, love laughs at locksmiths and goes into positive hysteria over the spectacle of a faithful wife.
“The end justifies the means,” Thornwald told himself, and when he spoke of “the end” in connection with Adrienne it is to be feared he had a very tangible image in mind.
But there were no means available until Adrienne’s husband provided them.
They came to Thornwald in the shape of a bulky manuscript delivered by Charles himself.
“Aphrodisia,” Thornwald murmured. “A Study of Erotic Stimuli Through the Ages.”
“Don’t let the title deceive you,” Charles told him. “It’s a scholarly work. I’ve been doing research on it now for almost a year—every since I lost my position at the university. See what you think. Maybe it could stand a chance with Harker House.”
“Ah yes, Harker House.” Thornwald happened to be on the board of editors of the publishing firm.
“Read it as a professional,” Charles urged. “Not as a friend.”
This wasn’t difficult for Thornwald, since by no stretch of the imagination did he consider himself to be Charles’ friend. Rival, or deadly enemy—that was much more to Thornwald’s taste and the nourishment of his obsession.
Still, after Charles went away, he did read it professionally. And found the answer.
“Why did you cross out this formula for a love philtre?” he asked Charles, upon a subsequent visit. Thornwald indicated the page. “Here—the one from Ludvig Prinn’s Grimoire, in the English edition.” He read the ingredients listed and the description of effects.
“The meerest droppe, if placed in a posset of wine or sack, will transforme ye beloved into a veritable bitche in heate.”
Charles smiled and shrugged. “You’ve just answered your own question,” he said. “Most of the spells and incantations I’ve set down are mere curiosa. I doubt if there’s any amorous incitement in owl dung, and calling a tomato a love apple is just sympathetic magic. But a few items come from sources I respect. Ludvig Prinn, for example, was a considerable sorcerer in his day.”
Thornwald elevated his eyebrows. “In other words, you decided to omit this particular formula because you’re afraid it might work?”
Charles nodded. “Look at the ingredients,” he said, “Some of them I never heard of, and heaven only knows what their reaction might be in combination. The ones I do know—yohimbine and cantharadin, for example—are in themselves powerful aphrodisiacs. Added to this other stuff, the result could be trouble.”
“Just what I was thinking,”
Thornwald said. And made a mental note, which he at once underlined in big black encephalographs.
“Interesting material,” he told Charles. “Let me pop this in to the editorial staff and we’ll see what we can do.”
He took the manuscript away and, three weeks later, called Charles. “It’s practically set,” he said. “You’ve an after-dinner appointment with the board tonight. Get into town and come back with a contract.”
That part was easy. The difficult matter had been to trace down all of the obscure ingredients for the love philtre. Some of them were only approximated in the pharmacopia and others had to be illegally obtained, but Thornwald’s obsession brooked no obstacles. And now he was ready.
As soon as he made certain that Charles had indeed departed for the city he made his final preparations. Promptly at eight he knocked on the door of Charles’ flat and Adrienne admitted him.
“Charles isn’t here,” she said.
“I know, but he’ll be back before midnight. And then we’ll celebrate his new book contract.” Thornwald waved the two bottles. “Champagne, my dear, and already iced. One bottle for when Charles returns. One to share between us while we’re waiting.”
