The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories

by Fitz-James O'Brien

  “Will you take me to the graveyard?”

  Peter shuddered. “Isn’t it a terrible risk? Middleton has shown he’ll stop at nothing.”

  “Why should he?” Richard laughed savagely. His mouth was bitter, his eyes alive with harsh mockery, and lines of suffering were carven deep in his face.

  “We never stopped hounding him,” said he. “John cheated him out of his last bit of land—that’s why Middleton killed him. For which you were devoutly thankful!”

  “You’re talking wild!” exclaimed Peter.

  Richard laughed bitterly. “You old hypocrite! We’re all beasts of prey, we Wilkinsons—like this thing!” He kicked the dead rat viciously. “We all hated each other. You’re glad Saul’s crazy! You’re glad John’s dead. Only me left now, and I have a heart disease. Oh, stare if you like! I’m no fool. I’ve seen you poring over Aaron’s lines in Titus Andronicus:

  “Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves, and set them upright at their dear friends’ doors!”

  “You’re mad yourself!” Peter sprang up, livid.

  “Oh, am I?” Richard had lashed himself almost into a frenzy. “What proof have we that you didn’t cut off John’s head? You knew Saul was a neurotic, that a shock like that might drive him mad! And you visited the graveyard yesterday!”

  Peter’s contorted face was a mask of fury. Then, with an effort of iron control, he relaxed and said quietly: “You are over-wrought, Richard.”

  “Saul and John hated you,” snarled Richard. “I know why. It was because you wouldn’t agree to leasing our farm on Wild River to that oil company. But for your stubbornness we might all be wealthy.”

  “You know why I wouldn’t lease,” snapped Peter. “Drilling there would ruin the agricultural value of the land—certain profit, not a risky gamble like oil.”

  “So you say,” sneered Richard. “But suppose that’s just a smoke screen? Suppose you dream of being the sole, surviving heir, and becoming an oil millionaire all by yourself, with no brothers to share—”

  Harrison broke in: “Are we going the chew the rag all night?”

  “No!” Peter turned his back on his brother. “I’ll take you to the graveyard. I’d rather face Joel Middleton in the night than listen to the ravings of this lunatic any longer.”

  “I’m not going,” snarled Richard. “Out there in the black night there’s too many chances for you to remove the remaining heir. I’ll go and stay the rest of the night with Jim Allison.”

  He opened the door and vanished in the darkness.

  Peter picked up the head and wrapped it in a cloth, shivering lightly as he did so.

  “Did you notice how well preserved the face is?” he muttered. “One would think that after three days—Come on. I’ll take it and put it back in the grave where it belongs.”

  “I’ll kick this dead rat outdoors,” Harrison began, turning—and then stopped short. “The damned thing’s gone!”

  Peter Wilkinson paled as his eyes swept the empty floor.

  “It was there!” he whispered. “It was dead. You smashed it! It couldn’t come to life and run away.”

  “We’ll, what about it?” Harrison did not mean to waste time on this minor mystery.

  Peter’s eyes gleamed wearily in the candlelight.

  “It was a graveyard rat!” he whispered. “I never saw one in an inhabited house, in town, before! The Indians used to tell strange tales about them! They said they were not beasts at all, but evil, cannibal demons, into which entered the spirits of wicked, dead men at whose corpses they gnawed!”

  “Hell’s fire!” Harrison snorted, blowing out the candle. But his flesh crawled. After all, a dead rat could not crawl away by itself.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Feathered Shadow

  Clouds had rolled across the stars. The air was hot and stifling. The narrow, rutty road that wound westward into the hills was atrocious. But Peter Wilkinson piloted his ancient Model T Ford skillfully, and the village was quickly lost to sight behind them. They passed no more houses. On each side the dense post oak thickets crowded close to the barbed-wire fences.

  Peter broke the silence suddenly:

  “How did that rat come into our house? They overrun the woods along the creeks, and swarm in every country graveyard in the hills. But I never saw one in the village before. It must have followed Joel Middleton when he brought the head—”

  A lurch and a monotonous bumping brought a curse from Harrison. The car came to a stop with a grind of brakes.

  “Flat,” muttered Peter. “Won’t take me long to change tires. You watch the woods. Joel Middleton might be hiding anywhere.”

  That seemed good advice. While Peter wrestled with rusty metal and stubborn rubber, Harrison stood between him and the nearest clump of trees, with his hand on his revolver. The night wind blew fitfully through the leaves, and once he thought he caught the gleam of tiny eyes among the stems.

  “That’s got it,” announced Peter at last, turning to let down the jack. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

  “Listen!” Harrison started, tensed. Off to the west had sounded a sudden scream of pain or fear. Then there came the impact of racing feet on the hard ground, the crackling of brush, as if someone fled blindly through the bushes within a few hundred yards of the road. In an instant Harrison was over the fence and running toward the sounds.

  “Help! Help!” it was the voice of dire terror. “Almighty God! Help!”

  “This way!” yelled Harrison, bursting into an open flat. The unseen fugitive evidently altered his course in response, for the heavy footfalls grew louder, and then there rang out a terrible shriek, and a figure staggered from the bushes on the opposite side of the glade and fell headlong.

  The dim starlight showed a vague writhing shape, with a darker figure on its back. Harrison caught the glint of steel, heard the sound of a blow. He threw up his gun and fired at a venture. At the crack of the shot, the darker figure rolled free, leaped up and vanished in the bushes. Harrison ran on, a queer chill crawling along his spine because of what he had seen in the flash of the shot.

  He crouched at the edge of the bushes and peered into them. The shadowy figure had come and gone, leaving no trace except the man who lay groaning in the glade.

  Harrison bent over him, snapping on his flashlight. He was an old man, a wild, unkempt figure with matted white hair and beard. That beard was stained with red now, and blood oozed from a deep stab in his back.

  “Who did this?” demanded Harrison, seeing that it was useless to try to stanch the flow of blood. The old man was dying. “Joel Middleton?”

  “It couldn’t have been!” Peter had followed the detective. “That’s old Joash Sullivan, a friend of Joel’s. He’s half crazy, but I’ve suspected that he’s been keeping in touch with Joel and giving his tips—”

  “Joel Middleton,” muttered the old man. “I’d been to find him, to tell the news about John’s head—”

  “Where’s Joel hiding?” demanded the detective.

  Sullivan choked on a flow of blood, spat and shook his head.

  “You’ll never learn from me!” He directed his eyes on Peter with the eerie glare of the dying. “Are you taking your brother’s head back to his grave, Peter Wilkinson? Be careful you don’t find your own grave before this night’s done! Evil on all your name! The devil owns your souls and the graveyard rats’ll eat your flesh! The ghost of the dead walks the night!”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Harrison. “Who stabbed you?”

  “A dead man!” Sullivan was going fast. “As I come back from meetin’ Joel Middleton I met him. Wolf Hunter, the Tonkawa chief your grandpap murdered so long ago, Peter Wilkinson! He chased me and knifed me. I saw him plain, in the starlight—naked in his loin-clout and feathers and paint, just as I saw him when I was a child, before your grandpap killed him!

  “Wolf Hunter took your brother’s head from the grave!” Sullivan’s voice was a ghastly whisper. “He’s come back fro
m Hell to fulfill the curse he laid onto your grandpa when your grandpap shot him in the back, to get the land his tribe claimed. Beware! His ghost walks the night! The graveyard rats are his servants. The graveyard rats—”

  Blood burst from his white-bearded lips and he sank back, dead.

  Harrison rose somberly.

  “Let him lie. We’ll pick up his body as we go back to town. We’re going on to the graveyard.”

  “Dare we?” Peter’s face was white. “A human I do not fear, not even Joel Middleton, but a ghost—”

  “Don’t be a fool!” snorted Harrison. “Didn’t you say the old man was half crazy?”

  “But what if Joel Middleton is hiding somewhere near—”

  “I’ll take care of him!” Harrison had an invincible confidence in his own fighting ability. What he did not tell Peter, as they returned to the car, was that he had had a glimpse of the slayer in the flash of his shot. The memory of that glimpse still had the short hair prickling at the base of his skull.

  That figure had been naked but for a loin-cloth and moccasins and a headdress of feathers.

  “Who was Wolf Hunter?” he demanded as they drove on.

  “A Tonkawa chief,” muttered Peter. “He befriended my grandfather and was later murdered by him, just as Joash said. They say his bones lie in the old graveyard to this day.”

  Peter lapsed into silence, seemingly a prey of morbid broodings.

  Some four miles from town the road wound past a dim clearing. That was the Wilkinson graveyard. A rusty barbed-wire fence surrounded a cluster of graves whose white headstones leaned at crazy angles. Weeds grew thick, straggling over the low mounds.

  The post oaks crowded close on all sides, and the road wound through them, past the sagging gate. Across the tops of the trees, nearly half a mile to the west, there was visible a shapeless bulk which Harrison knew was the roof of a house.

  “The old Wilkinson farmhouse,” Peter answered in reply to his question. “I was born there, and so were my brothers. Nobody’s lived in it since we moved to town, ten years ago.”

  Peter’s nerves were taut. He glanced fearfully at the black woods around him, and his hands trembled as he lighted a lantern he took from the car. He winced as he picked up the round cloth-wrapped object that lay on the back seat; perhaps he was visualizing the cold, white, stony face that cloth concealed.

  As he climbed over the low gate and led the way between the weed-grown mounds he muttered: “We’re fools. If Joel Middleton’s laying out there in the woods he could pick us both off easy as shooting rabbits.”

  Harrison did not reply, and a moment later Peter halted and shone the light on a mound which was bare of weeds. The surface was tumbled and disturbed, and Peter exclaimed: “Look! I expected to find an open grave. Why do you suppose he took the trouble of filling it again?”

  “We’ll see,” grunted Harrison. “Are you game to open that grave?”

  “I’ve seen my brother’s head,” answered Peter grimly. “I think I’m man enough to look on his headless body without fainting. There are tools in the tool-shed in the corner of the fence. I’ll get them.”

  Returning presently with pick and shovel, he set the lighted lantern on the ground, and the cloth-wrapped head near it. Peter was pale, and sweat stood on his brow in thick drops. The lantern cast their shadows, grotesquely distorted, across the weed-grown graves. The air was oppressive. There was an occasional dull flicker of lightning along the dusky horizons.

  “What’s that?” Harrison paused, pick lifted. All about them sounded rustlings and scurryings among the weeds. Beyond the circle of lantern light clusters of tiny red beads glittered at him.

  “Rats!” Peter hurled a stone and the beads vanished, though the rustlings grew louder. “They swarm in this graveyard. I believe they’d devour a living man, if they caught him helpless. Begone, you servants of Satan!”

  Harrison took the shovel and began scooping out mounds of loose dirt.

  “Ought not to be hard work,” he grunted. “If he dug it out today or early tonight, it’ll be loose all the way down—”

  He stopped short, with his shovel jammed hard against the dirt, and a prickling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. In the tense silence he heard the graveyard rats running through the grass.

  “What’s the matter?” A new pallor greyed Peter’s face.

  “I’ve hit solid ground,” said Harrison slowly. “In three days, this clayey soil bakes hard as a brick. But if Middleton or anybody else had opened this grave and refilled it today, the soil would be loose all the way down. It’s not. Below the first few inches it’s packed and baked hard! The top has been scratched, but the grave has never been opened since it was first filled, three days ago!”

  Peter staggered with an inhuman cry.

  “Then it’s true!” he screamed. “Wolf Hunter has come back! He reached up from Hell and took John’s head without opening the grave! He sent his familiar devil into our house in the form of a rat! A ghost-rat that could not be killed! Hands off, curse you!”

  For Harrison caught at him, growling: “Pull yourself together, Peter!”

  But Peter struck his arm aside and tore free. He turned and ran—not toward the car parked outside the graveyard, but toward the opposite fence. He scrambled across the rusty wires with a ripping of cloth and vanished in the woods, heedless of Harrison’s shouts.

  “Hell!” Harrison pulled up, and swore fervently. Where but in the black-hill country could such things happen? Angrily he picked up the tools and tore into the close-packed clay, baked by a blazing sun into almost iron hardness.

  Sweat rolled from him in streams, and he grunted and swore, but persevered with all the power of his massive muscles. He meant to prove or disprove a suspicion growing in his mind—a suspicion that the body of John Wilkinson had never been placed in that grave.

  The lightning flashed oftener and closer, and a low mutter of thunder began in the west. An occasional gust of wind made the lantern flicker, and as the mound beside the grave grew higher, and the man digging there sank lower and lower in the earth, the rustling in the grass grew louder and the red beads began to glint in the weeds. Harrison heard the eerie gnashings of tiny teeth all about him, and swore at the memory of grisly legends, whispered by the Negroes of his boyhood region about the graveyard rats.

  The grave was not deep. No Wilkinson would waste much labor on the dead. At last the rude coffin lay uncovered before him. With the point of the pick he pried up one corner of the lid, and held the lantern close. A startled oath escaped his lips. The coffin was not empty. It held a huddled, headless figure.

  Harrison climbed out of the grave, his mind racing, fitting together pieces of the puzzle. The stray bits snapped into place, forming a pattern, dim and yet incomplete, but taking shape. He looked for the cloth-wrapped head, and got a frightful shock.

  The head was gone!

  For an instant Harrison felt cold sweat clammy on his hands. Then he heard a clamorous squeaking, the gnashing of tiny fangs.

  He caught up the lantern and shone the light about. In its reflection he saw a white blotch on the grass near a straggling clump of bushes that had invaded the clearing. It was the cloth in which the head had been wrapped. Beyond that a black, squirming mound heaved and tumbled with nauseous life.

  With an oath of horror he leaped forward, striking and kicking. The graveyard rats abandoned the head with rasping squeaks, scattering before him like darting black shadows. And Harrison shuddered. It was no face that stared up at him in the lantern light, but a white, grinning skull, to which clung only shreds of gnawed flesh.

  While the detective burrowed into John Wilkinson’s grave, the graveyard rats had torn the flesh from John Wilkinson’s head.

  Harrison stooped and picked up the hideous thing, now triply hideous. He wrapped it in the cloth, and as he straightened, something like fright took hold of him.

  He was ringed in on all sides by a solid circle of gleaming red sparks that
shone from the grass. Held back by their fear, the graveyard rats surrounded him, squealing their hate.

  Demons, the Negroes called them, and in that moment Harrison was ready to agree.

  They gave back before him as he turned toward the grave, and he did not see the dark figure that slunk from the bushes behind him. The thunder boomed out, drowning even the squeaking of the rats, but he heard the swift footfall behind him an instant before the blow was struck.

  He whirled, drawing his gun, dropping the head, but just as he whirled, something like a louder clap of thunder exploded in his head, with a shower of sparks before his eyes.

  As he reeled backward he fired blindly, and cried out as the flash showed him a horrific, half-naked, painted, feathered figure, crouching with a tomahawk uplifted—the open grave was behind Harrison as he fell.

  Down into the grave he toppled, and his head struck the edge of the coffin with a sickening impact. His powerful body went limp; and like darting shadows, from every side raced the graveyard rats, hurling themselves into the grave in a frenzy of hunger and blood-lust.

  CHAPTER 4

  Rats in Hell

  It seemed to Harrison’s stunned brain that he lay in blackness on the darkened floors of Hell, a blackness lit by darts of flame from the eternal fires. The triumphant shrieking of demons was in his ears as they stabbed him with red-hot skewers.

  He saw them, now—dancing monstrosities with pointed noses, twitching ears, red eyes and gleaming teeth—a sharp pain knifed through his flesh.

  And suddenly the mists cleared. He lay, not on the floor of Hell, but on a coffin in the bottom of a grave; the fires were lightning flashes from the black sky; and the demons were rats that swarmed over him, slashing with razor-sharp teeth.

  Harrison yelled and heaved convulsively, and at his movement the rats gave back in alarm. But they did not leave the grave; they massed solidly along the walls, their eyes glittering redly.

  Harrison knew he could have been senseless only a few seconds. Otherwise, these grey ghouls would have already stripped the living flesh from his bones—as they had ripped the dead flesh from the head of the man on whose coffin he lay.