HEARTTHROB

by Unknown

  It was a cell, just like you'd find in any jail, except that the steel was rustier and the general condition of the place was filthy. Behind the barred door was the hideous form of Giles Drew. Seeing the flashlight, the misshapen man acted as if he wanted to speak, but all that came out was a croaking noise. The creature could not speak! Yet the look on the man's face could not be mistaken. That — and the way his arms extended toward the cell door... It was an act of supplication. To be released from the cell, and from the chains, which the constable now realized, were fastened to his wrists. With a swift movement, Constable Steed had his service revolver in his hand, cocked and pointed. Then ...

  You can't judge a book by its cover, he reflected. He let the hammer move slowly forward, uncocking the pistol. "Did you kill two women?" he asked, Wildly, Giles shook his head no, and then he did something else. With a single index finger, he pointed upward. Upstairs. Hilliard! Constable Steed accepted the accusation, he knew not why, but he knew that it fit with his own thinking. Noticing that there was light coming in from a barred window behind the chained man — moonlight, obviously — he turned off his flash and set to work on the door. When he had successfully opened that, he grasped the wrist of Giles Drew and applied himself to that lock. If, he thought — if 1 am wrong...

  Giles moved not at all, not after the first lock was sprung, not after the second wristlock was released, He stood, his one good eye staring into the eyes of the constable, his mouth opening and closing until —

  Until the voice of Hilliard Drew cried out. "Good God! Constable! You didn't — you couldn't have —"

  He stood about fifteen feet from the open cell. Before the constable knew what had happened, the man beside him — Giles Drew — had roared like a bull and swept him aside. He seemed to leap through the open door, leap toward his younger brother like some charging beast, like... a wolf!

  "Stand back!" the constable commanded, but no one obeyed, the deranged brother attacking Hilliard Drew as if with killer instinct. Having issued his warning, Constable Steed lifted his revolver and fired two shots — straight into the back of Giles Drew. "Stupid!" he reviled himself as he bent over the dead man. "Stupid!"

  "He knew," Hilliard Drew said.

  Constable Steed nodded. "Knew he was a werewolf, you mean?"

  "No, Constable. He knew that I am"

  The good constable tried to lift his pistol to a position where it might do some good, but it was much too late. The moonlight spilling into the dungeon room gave him a quick but more than ample look at the wild face and fanged mouth, which were rushing toward him. In the instant before his throat was slashed, the constable knew that there was indeed truth in that old adage and that he had been right, not wrong, about Giles.

  Small consolation, don't you think?

  KEEPER OF THE VAULT

  The story of the Clement gang

  In American criminal annals, the 1920s and 1930s are full of such bloodthirsty luminaries. Oh, the sagas, the songs that have been sung of them. There are, however, no songs, no sagas about the Clement gang. You see, they only — to use the romantic idiom — " pulled one job." And that one, well...

  The dusty town of Huxley was the site chosen, not for any aesthetic reason to be sure, but because the bank there — on a particular Thursday night — was holding a goodly sum of payroll money. Now, other bank robbers gained fame from boldly walking into their target bank during broad daylight, but the Clement gang, in planning its first accumulation of others' funds, decided that a daylight operation offered too many dangers. Thus, they opted for the still hours of dark night. Had they known of course...

  But they didn't. In fact, the four members of the gang — Harold Clement, Will Clement, Sam Clement and a final member colorfully called Kid Blast — were quite successful in gaining entry into the interior of the bank without setting off any alarm. They also did quite well in letting themselves into the cage just before the strong vault. The vault itself, of course, would have to be opened with a bit of noise, and that was the specialty of Kid Blast, whose expertise included the use of the several bundles of dynamite, which he busily was arranging about the heavy steel door. He was, in fact, engaged in the arranging when the four members of the Clement gang discovered to their dismay that there were five men gathered before the vault.

  The fifth man was a rather disconcerting being. It was not so much his old style of dress, but more the face of the man. His head was totally hairless, shaped much like a fleshless skull... his eyes seemed to be fiery torches... and his voice, for all its rage, sounded as if it were a booming echo coming from some bottomless pit: "You dare — you dare to think you can take my money?"

  The three Clement brothers and Kid Blast were frozen in shock at the sight of the old man as he pointed a bony finger toward the dynamite that lay about the floor. As the four robbers followed the gesture, their eyes opened wide in horror. None of them missed the ignited, sputtering fuse as it hissed its way toward a bundle of the deadly red cylinders.

  The explosion rocked the town, bringing to the scene curious but cautious townspeople, armed with rifles and shotguns. When the first group of these, approaching the bank from the rear, stepped through the rent in the wall, they affirmed that the thick vault was still intact. There were, however, parts of three men scattered ingloriously throughout the cage. The fourth man was found out in the small lobby of the bank, quite near the front door.

  Harold dement was badly burned, but it was not that which seemed to be causing the strange sounds the man was making — alternating low sobs and high-pitched cries. He was standing there, his eyes round and bulbous, focused upon the portrait on the wall, the portrait of the bank's founder who had been dead for some twenty years.

  Even in life the old man's head had been shaped like a fleshless skull...

  PUT ON A DEADLY FACE

  The story of Silas Friday

  How amusing they are, those clowns in the circus, the ones with the bright and happy faces. Some of the sad-looking clowns, too, can make us smile and even laugh as they go through antics, which remind us of our all-too-human frailty. But then there are those other clowns we see now and then, those with faces so sad that they appear to be the holders of some truth too terrible to speak of aloud. These clowns, regardless of their movements down in the center ring or outside of it, cause no laughs, no smiles. Only a shudder, a cold chill deep within our spines...

  Silas Friday was such a clown. His painted face with its down-turned eyes and so-sad mouth, its drooping nose... when combined with the baggy suit he wore, his entire presence was one which was disconcerting not only to the paying customers but also to other members of the circus troupe. This in itself says much, in that people who have been around circuses and carnivals usually long have gotten used to seeing odd and sometimes hideous manifestations of the human form, especially those versions of humanity that haunt the dark contrasts of shadow and light in and around the freak tents. Even so, there was hardly a member of the troupe who was not unsettled by the clown face of Silas Friday.

  Silas Friday himself had no explanation for the effect he caused. He knew that there were sad clowns and happy clowns, he knew that he'd always been a sad clown, just as he knew that he could not abruptly change his makeup, his clothes, his manner of walk and thus become something other than what he was. He knew that — for a clown's costume is much more than just the simple trappings he wears under the bright lights. No. The costume and face, all of it, are an extension of himself. Silas Friday had never seriously thought of changing into something other than himself — not, at least, until that one Friday night.

  Eddie Lot had been a clown for even more years than Silas. Eddie Lot, however, was a happy clown. His suit was stuffed full to almost complete roundness, his waddle brought happy cheers from children and adults alike, but it was his facial makeup, which was the main cause of the happiness he spread. He once told Silas, "You can't look at my face without at least smiling." That wasn't precisely correct, becaus
e Silas Friday didn't smile at Eddie's face. He hated it. It reminded him of his own shortcomings as a clown.

  Two things happened on that special Friday. The first was the business manager's visit to Silas's tent. Because of pressure from the rest of the troupe, the manager was going to have to let Silas go. Tonight would be his last show. The second thing was Eddie Lot's death. Natural causes, to be sure, but it got Silas thinking. Silas, you see, was the first to learn of Eddie's end. He had gone to the happy clown's tent to ask him for advice. Eddie was half into his makeup, his head resting on the dressing table. It was less than an hour from show time.

  Quickly, Silas made his decision. He did not want to touch the dead man, but there was no choice. He moved the body onto the tent floor, and then he began. The round costume beside him, he stripped the rubber headpiece from the top of Eddie's skull and, sitting before the mirror, placed it upon his own. A bald white dome with strands of straw-colored hair, shooting directly outward just over the ears. Silas shivered as he saw his reflection, but shook off the feeling, instead concentrating upon the paints. He worked swiftly, skillfully, having seen Eddie's laughing face with its twinkling eyes and high, upturned mouth so many times that he could have done the job in the dark. And in a way, even though the tent was brightly lighted, it felt dark here...

  Silas knew why. Eddie's face and costume had been a part of Eddie, and of no one else. For a clown to adopt another's costume was the highest of professional sacrilege. But, Silas told himself, again and again, Eddie is dead... he won't mind... Still, though, the taking of another clown's face... Suddenly Silas looked behind him, down at the floor where Eddie lay. No, there was no movement. For a moment there, he'd thought he'd heard... soft laughter...

  But only one or two touches more — there! It was done, completed! And now to check carefully in the mirror, to be sure everything was exactly right. Silas chuckled at the way his mouth moved, smiling at the funny little eyes and the shaggy eyebrows above them. It was true — the face was funny. He laughed tentatively; then, seeing the face in the mirror laugh back, he laughed again, this time more loudly. He laughed so hard his stomach began to hurt...

  The hysterical sounds were over by the time the others reached the tent. Silas Friday sat back in his chair, that wide funny grin painted on his face, a face the happiness of which was marred only by the rivulets on the cheeks where tears from his eyes had spoiled the makeup. Both Silas Friday and Eddie Lot were judged to have died from heart failure, but the people of the circus knew better. One of them — the one who had been a thief of the other's face — had died a victim of his own theft.

  You hear people, now and again, use the phrase, "I almost died laughing." It is not a phrase to be used lightly... is it?

  BLOOD MONEY

  The story of Uncle Lester

  Come, let us look into the home of a typical Midwestern American family. A cozy house, a mother and father and a four-year-old boy whose name is Clarence. The father and mother have worked hard all their lives, and they have taught their son the value of thrift even at his early age. His piggy bank with its rattling coins is one of his proudest possessions. There is a fourth member of the family, too, but only temporarily. Uncle Lester is visiting for a time. Uncle Lester is father's older brother, quite a bit older. A genial sort of person is Uncle Lester, but he does not believe overly much in the virtues of work. Many families have counterparts of Uncle Lester who manage quite well by extended visits with softhearted relatives. Sometimes they strain the patience of the home, sometimes the very fabric of family life, but usually they are allowed to remain until someone... or something... takes a hand. Takes a hand — yes, an appropriate phrase.

  Uncle Lester had traveled to many places and he had many stories to tell of his early adventures as he smoked his pipe out on the front porch. But lately mother and father were tiring of the stories and their hope was that Uncle Lester would soon make his departure. The problem was, you see, that Uncle Lester was stealing from the family. Oh, not all that much in monetary terms, to be sure; just enough to buy his tobacco. But he was taking the money from little Clarence's piggy bank.

  "Pig," as the bank was called, was a large metal container, which father had made himself from a metal container and mother had decorated to look like a pig. Ears had been fashioned from papier-mâché, a curled tail had been made from a wire coat hanger, and the entire device was given a coat of gleaming yellow and black spotted paint. Clarence loved Pig, not just for the sake of the money inside, but also for the "talks" they would have together. For, you see, father had constructed Pig so that at the front was a hinged jaw, which was movable. Thus Clarence often could be seen working the jaw up and down during their periods of conversation. The real function of the jaw, of course, was the insertion of money — and the withdrawal of money as well. It was clear that Uncle Lester was doing a bit of withdrawing.

  At first mother and father weren't eager to believe the teary-eyed boy, but they knew well that he knew precisely how many pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and fifty-cent pieces Pig held. With too muck regularity; corns of the upper values were disappearing. Father, in the hope that soon the problem and Uncle Lester would go away, began replenishing Pig's missing funds, but it was not the same — not to Little Clarence, anyway. He decided he would catch Uncle Lester in the act. So night after night, he lay in his upstairs bed, pretending to be asleep, hoping... wailing... and then, of course, falling asleep anyway, dreaming hateful dreams of what he would do to his uncle when the thief was caught.

  He was in the midst of such a dream when the agonized cry brought him to a sitting position. The room was dark, but a bit of moonlight that came through the window showed him that there was someone else in the room... over by where Pig normally sat on the bureau. Again the cry sounded — loud and horrible. Clarence was frightened then, and he started to run from the room. But Uncle Lester's scream stopped him. "Help me! Your parents are out help me!" And then Clarence turned on the light. When he saw what there was to see, he no longer was frightened. He just sat on the edge of the bed and, his eyes narrowing to cold black dots, he watched.

  When mother and father came home, they found Uncle Lester lying halfway down the stairs. Very dead, of course, after losing all that blood, but there were two questions for which satisfactory answers never were found. One... what had caused that look of horror, which had frozen itself onto Uncle Lester's face? Two... what had happened to Uncle Lester's right hand, which had been severed off at a point just below the wrist? True, little Clarence had been home at the time, but he had been asleep when he heard Uncle Lester call for help, he said. Obviously the boy wasn't going to be of very much help, so mother and father and the police said he could run along. He did, to the outside water faucet. There he sat down and took all his money from Pig's stomach. The coins... and Pig's insides as well... had to be washed thoroughly. Everything was so... messy...

  A disturbing tale? Oh, I don't know... unless there's a piggy bank in your house... and short just a couple of coins...

  THE FISHMONGER

  The story of Albert Able

  In many lands at many times the belief has been that if you eat the flesh of another... or drink his blood... you acquire his power. One can scoff at such beliefs as being little more than primitive superstition. I think, for example, that Albert Able might have done so... before he began his strange diet of a certain peculiar sort of seafood...

  The day it all began Albert Able was miserable. Not only was the day itself rather gloomy for spring in San Francisco, but it was the day prior to his first important case in court, and the lawyer who was to be his opposition was well known as a sharp-thinking master of verbal battle who never had lost in courtroom conflict. Albert had all his facts, knew that by all rights he should win the case, but deep within him he knew that against such formidable opposition as old Geddry he didn't stand much of a chance. Such were his thoughts as he walked along the wharf, thoughts of gloom so heavy that it took a bit of time
for him to realize that the grinning man with the white apron standing outside the small store was speaking to him. When he understood what the man was saying, he shook his head, first at the man himself, then at the four red letters on the glass window: FISH.

  But the man in the white apron insisted that Albert Able come inside and have at least a look, that among the fish he had in his cases there was one which was very special, one he was sure was just the thing which Albert required. Albert nodded absentmindedly and, rather than offend the fish seller, followed him inside the store and to the cases. He would look, and then say something about not caring for fish, and then he would leave. That was his intention, but when he saw the particular fish the man in the apron took from the case and laid on the counter, he suddenly was more than interested.

  "What kind of fish is that?" he asked warily, but the fish seller merely smiled. "A special fish," he replied. "One that, if eaten tonight, should give you a degree of success... for tomorrow." It was, Albert Able decided, an uncanny coincidence. The man's words... and this fish, the features of which about the head resembled a man's features. Not those of just any man, but those of... old Geddry. Hastily, Albert Able paid the price for the fish — a small price comparable to those in the display case, which advertised the prices of other types of food from the sea. Just as hastily he went to his apartment and cleaned and cooked the fish he had bought. Its taste was nothing spectacular, but he ate all of it. He felt no different afterward.

  But the next day in court, Albert Able trampled all over old Geddry. It was as if the seasoned lawyer had forgotten every point of law he'd ever known. His eyes looked dull, his speech was slow, and his manner of handling the entire case was, in a word, bumbling. And late that afternoon Albert went back to the wharf to the fish seller's shop. The man in the white apron ignored Albert's questions by repeatedly asking him if he enjoyed the fish he had purchased the previous day. Finally Albert shouted. "Yes!" Then, before he could say anything more, he was looking at another fish. This one, too, had humanlike features, but Albert didn't recognize them. Yet he bought this special fish — at a price slightly higher than the other had cost — and that evening it was the mainstay of his dinner meal. It was more than a week later when Albert met the man whose features matched those of the fish. He was supposedly a very talented New York lawyer who had been flown in to handle the court case against another of Albert's clients. His talents, whatever they were, were not apparent in the courtroom. Albert Able, to the delight of his client, made the New Yorker look like a country bumpkin fresh out of law school.