by Unknown
The howling of the wind was so loud that the man had to shout, and Murphy and O’Toole on their part had to shout as well. He needed help. He had to move something. If they would help him, their reward would be considerable. The two young men tried to inquire as to just what had to be moved, but all they received in response was a pointed finger toward the wagon. The gesture was obvious. What had to be moved was there. Murphy and O’Toole climbed up into the wagon with the black-cloaked man. It was as the two men reached down to grapple with the large block of stone that their employer shook his head. No, not here, his gesture conveyed, with which he took a seat up front and lashed the fine black horse whose reactive lurch forward caused Murphy and O'Toole to grasp the sides of the wagon in earnest. As they did so, they noticed that there was something else in the bottom of the wagon, something other than the stone. Two long-handled shovels. And now they recognized the stone for what it was. A grave marker. The speed of the wagon through the barely visible streets made Murphy and O'Toole uncomfortable, but they were even more uncomfortable when they recognized that they were passing between the two stone pillars which demarcated the entrance to the village cemetery. Murphy was on the verge of demanding an explanation from the driver when suddenly their movement halted and the tall, drenched man stepped down to the ground. Both young men made a move to follow, but a hand gesture stopped them. "The stone," the dark man said. "Here." Murphy and O'Toole looked at each other. They had come this far, after all. Why not? There was the matter of payment, too.
The stone was heavy, so much so that Murphy cursed under his breath that at the very least the man who had employed them could assist a little. But he didn't, unless you could count his bringing the two shovels from the wagon. Again his directions were short and to the point. The stone from the wagon was to be placed in the spot he indicated, right next to a stone, which was of similar size and shape. He handed the shovels to the two young men. Both Murphy and O'Toole cursed this time, but they set into the work. When it was accomplished, the man inclined his head, as if bowing to the two of them. "And the payment?" O'Toole demanded. For an answer, the cloaked man merely pointed toward the wagon. Both Murphy and O'Toole looked in that direction. When, puzzled, they looked back; the cloaked man no longer was with them.
It didn't take them long to understand. The horse and wagon were to be their payment, one that was more than ample, considering the price fetched when they were sold. As for the disappearing man, they understood that also. The message was plain, right there on the headstone, you see. The family name matched that on the similar stone next to it, the stone of a woman who had died some five years previously. Under her name and the date was the inscription; She was with her husband always. The year of death on the man's stone was the current year, under which were these words: Lost at sea, but never lost to her. It was no wonder that the man had looked so... so wet...
There is this moral to be drawn from the tale: If the dead ask for your help, they're willing to pay for it At least they are sometimes...
THE BEAT OF LEATHER WINGS
The story of Petre
Fright is essentially an adult emotion. To be sure, children can be frightened, but the older one gets the more sources of terror become known to him. It is part of the process we call education, and, looking at the innocence of the very young, we are inclined to think it a better way of dealing with the world. But is it? The story of five-year-old Petre may help to clarify the matter...
In the little village at the base of the Carpathian Mountains, the people were what you and I would call very superstitious, but, especially upon one night of the year, one could hardly miss witnessing the work of superstition and the symbolic prevention of terrible evils. The night was All Hallows' Eve.
Little Petre lived with his aunt and uncle, and, since there were no other children in the house, he was called upon to assist in the work, which had to be completed before nightfall. The wort consisted of fastening to the exterior and interior of the house — at each window and door — metal crosses and strings of garlic. All over the village, Petre's uncle told him, similar work was going on.
"It is the night of their coming," the uncle said. "They cannot enter where the cross and garlic command." The uncle would have explained more, but Petre's aunt intervened. There was no need to frighten the boy, she insisted. As long as the house was duly protected, all would be safe within. Besides, it had been many years since they had been seen or heard. Perhaps, because the village had been so protected for year after year, they now passed it by completely. So she said, but Petre did not miss the fact that both his aunt and uncle made a quick sign of the cross before their breasts even as she finished speaking.
The boy was sent to bed earlier than usual, the supper meal having been consumed in great haste. Before tucking him in, his aunt made certain that the window in Petre's room was locked, that the curtains were drawn, and that the garlic and the cross were positioned correctly. As the boy closed his eyes, visions of them danced in his mind.
He knew, of course, what caused the fear in the village. The vampires. An older boy had told him all about them. They lived in castles high in the mountains. They lived on the blood of others. The older boy even had an old book, which had a drawing of a vampire. It was a horrible-looking thing with long teeth, a head almost like that of a goat but uglier, a tail like the Devil's and large leather wings shaped like the wings of a bat. No one in the village ever had seen a vampire personally, but obviously it was a terrible, terrible thing, Petre told himself as he buried his head deeper under the pillow.
It was totally dark and quiet in the house when Petre suddenly awoke. No one or nothing was stirring, but outside — it seemed, outside his very window — he could hear something. It sounded much like ho thought heavy beating wings would sound... leather wings. Those ugly things, the vampires, were out there!
And then he remembered that no one in the village ever had seen a vampire. If that was so, how did anyone really know what they looked like? How could anyone draw a picture of a vampire such as the one in that book? The pictures couldn't be real; if nobody ever saw the thing it was supposed to be! But if they were out there now, then maybe he — Petre — could see them. And maybe they weren't as bad as his uncle and his aunt and the others all thought. He climbed down from his bed and moved to the window. When he opened the curtains, he saw them.
There were six of them, all standing upon the roof across the way. Petre could see them clearly in the moonlight. What's more, they could see him — they were looking at him right now. But the drawing was all wrong. They looked just like ordinary men and women. The men were dressed in dark rich-man's clothing, the women in long white flowing gowns. Their faces were smiling at him, and there were no long teeth or anything at all unusual — except perhaps for their eyes. Their red, burning eyes that seemed to be saying something to Petre...
"Yes," Petre said suddenly. "You won't hurt anybody, I know that now." And, still quietly, because somehow he knew it was important not to wake up his uncle and aunt, he took down the cross and the garlic and then opened the window. Then he left the room. There were the other protections to remove. He had just completed clearing the entrance to the bedroom of his uncle and aunt when he saw them — the six — coming from his room. He wondered briefly how they got from the roof they had been on to his window. Then he knew. There were large bat-like wings attached to the six. And now they didn't look at all like they had before. Their faces were changing, but all the time their bright red eyes burned into his.
"It isn't fair!" Petre cried out. "You lied to me! I'll tell my uncle!" But, of course, he didn't have to tell his uncle. Petre's uncle and his aunt soon knew... everything...
Listen! Is that your child up in his room talking to himself? Or, perhaps, is there someone — or something — up there with him? Shall we go and see…
THE LAUGHING BUDDHA
The story of Vance Stillman
Do you ever wonder, when you pass through muse
um rooms full of ancient artifacts, just how the museum acquired some of the things they display? Assuredly, most of the old items were acquired in above-board transactions, but if the history of some of them were known... Well, suffice it to say that there are men such as Vance Stillman who earn rather substantial incomes from plundering temples of the faithful. Sometimes their work takes them to remote corners of the world and sometimes, as was the case with Vance Stillman, they not only find what they seek, but something else. Stark terror...
In the snow-covered heights of the Nepalese Himalayas, Vance Stillman looked at the three-foot-high statue of the altar within the modest but well-kept temple. He first had heard of the "laughing Buddha" more than a month ago in Katmandu. A Buddha of solid gold, it was said, a Buddha worshiped by a sect, which was both small and strange in their doctrines. As he looked upon the statue, Vance Stillman made three deductions. One, it was not solid gold; one could see where the gold leaf had worn away from the baser metal of which the figure had been cast. Two, it was not really the Lord Buddha who was depicted; the fierce eyes were narrowed in hatred and cruelty as was the laughing face which was as far from a Buddha's smile of solemnity as could be imagined. Three, whatever the seated figure might represent, it was very old — and therefore very valuable. Vance Stillman decided he would take the statue to civilization.
He anticipated little difficulty in enforcing his decision. Only two thin priests who looked as if they were as old as the statue guarded the temple. Their cries of alarm as he stepped up to the altar and took the figure from its place above it were quickly quieted by the showing of the pistol he revealed from within his heavy coat. Even so, as Vance Stillman placed the figure into his backpack, one of the old priests attempted to block his exit from the temple. "No!" the old one said. "His place is in the mountains. He cannot be taken from them. He will not go!" Vance Stillman laughed as the barrel of his pistol cracked heavily into the old man's skull. The laughing Buddha, or whoever he was, was leaving — and he was leaving immediately.
It was not until the temple thief had been on his downward trail for ten minutes that he wondered whether or not the blow on the head had killed the old priest. Even then, he did not concern himself with the problem, he simply wondered. Of much more concern was the downfall of snow, which was his companion at this stage of his descent. It would tend to slow him down, and a man could freeze in such weather if he slackened his pace. Vance Stillman laughed at his own concern. He had, after all, worked his trade in malaria-infested jungles. He had passed through nests of scorpions and rivers of crocodiles to earn his living. No, there was no reason to fear the pure, white snow. None at all...
And then it happened. Stillman was moving along a narrow ledge, carefully placing foot before foot, when he felt it. A movement behind him, a sudden rustle and pressure upon his back — not loud, not heavy, but enough to make him turn. His eyes were difficult to believe. Somehow, someway, the flap on his backpack had come loose, although he was certain he had fastened it securely. But that wasn't the real concern. The statue... somehow, probably the wind, he thought... it was out of the pack! It seemed to pause for a moment in midair — and then it began to fall.
Vance Stillman's first cry was as he reached down to catch his treasure, which he was certain, was about to be lost to him forever down the cliffside. His second cry came as his reaching caused his balance to shift and his feet slipped out from under him — and he felt himself going over the side. A man of some agility, he flailed his limbs to thrust his body close to the slippery ice- and snow-covered rocks of the cliff-side. He exhaled with relief when the sliding motion stopped, his boot soles finding a ledge which held. The smile, which began to form on his face stopped in midmotion as he realized that the ledge he stood on, was just that. A small outcropping which, while fortuitously placed to stop his plummeting to a certain death, neither went on to the left or to the right. There was nothing below, either — nothing but the sheer glistening ice wall to oblivion. The only possible route to safety was the way he had come. Upward. And as his eyes looked that way, Vance Stillman cried out for a third time.
There above him — on the very edge of the ledge he had walked upon, the ledge which, being some twelve feet above him, he knew now he had no chance of reaching — there sat the golden figure. Stillman could see it clearly now, the snow having suddenly stopped The statue's face looked straight down at him, its eyes narrowed in hate, its face contorted in disdain, its mouth curled into that hideous contortion of derision. It was, perhaps, Stillman's imagination, but as the treacherous ice-air of the mountains began to permeate his clothing and his skin, his glazed eyes seemed to see the figure move. And then his ears began playing tricks — or else they did in fact hear the laughter. But he had no chance to think about it, really, since that occurred moments before Vance Stillman froze to death...
A fitting end, you say? I would think twice before voicing that opinion. I see, for example, that odd curio over on your table. True, you bought it from the native shopkeeper, all above-board, I'm sure. But have you considered... where he obtained the item.
DEATH CAN'T WAIT
The story of Henry Turner
There are times, usually in the early hours of the dark morning, when we are uncertain as to whether what we have experienced is real or is in fact but a dream. There are some who say that the quality of such an experience really is not important, asking us to consider the nature of dreams. Are not dreams real in themselves? How you and I might answer that question is not of much significance here. The point is that Henry Turner had his opinion and, given the nature of his dream — if that is what it was — who can blame nun?
It was sometime after three that Wednesday morning when a sound in the room caused him to sit up in his bed. There, in the darkness, in a chair across the room, sat a figure whose face was very white. It was a man's face and it seemed to glow with a pale luminescence as the lips moved and spoke to Henry Turner. "It is tune, Henry. Three days from now your time to join me will come."
Henry Turner had no doubt at all as to the identity of the owner of the pale face. He was staring into the hollow eyes of Death or an agent of the Grim Reaper. Even so, he was moved to protest. First, he was not all that old and he was not yet ready to die. Second, he simply could not die now — who would take care of his two maiden aunts who even now slept soundly in their room across the hall? But the pale white face showed no relenting. "Your responsibilities to your aunts are the reason you have received advance warning. You have three days in which to properly arrange your affairs — and theirs."
"But they can't get along without me!" Henry Turner shouted. And then he found that there was no one else in the room, none except himself. Cold sweat covered his body. A dream, that's what it had to be. He told himself that again and again as, restlessly, he tried to return to sleep. On the following days he convinced himself that it had been no more than a foolish dream, even though the memory of that pale white face remained in a dark corner of his mind, staying there, haunting him. Nonetheless, the weekend was coming up and he had promised his aunts that they would have their regular Saturday outing. They found it so refreshing to get away from the city for a day, enjoying the drive into the country, enjoying even the rush of expressway traffic. So it was that on Saturday, three days after Henry Turner dreamed of Death, his car was speeding northward, his mind focused on directing his vehicle and not overly attentive to the conversation of his aunts in the rear of the car — not until one of them called his attention to the strange hitchhiker up ahead on the right side of the road.
Like many hitchhikers he carried a sign, but it was a curious sign. It did not specify a destination, but instead held a message: YOU WIN, AND LOSE. Instantly after absorbing the words, Henry's mind absorbed the man carrying the sign. A lean man dressed in black, with a pale white face — and hollow-looking eyes! Henry screamed, for he now knew what the words meant. Words to which his eyes now returned... a very bad thing to do in high-speed traffic
when there was a sharp turn just coming up...
Death came instantaneously in twisted metal and shattered glass. There were but three victims of the one-car accident. Henry Turner and the two aunts... who could not have gotten along without him. So, you see, Death can be thoughtful at times... even though it always insists on punctuality...
HANGING HOUSE
The story of Cyril Sutton
There are those who scoff at stories of haunted houses. Cyril Sutton was among them and, although it cannot be said for certain whether the house in which he spent his last night was haunted, it can be said that it had its curious effects. It also can be said that Cyril Sutton scoffs no longer...
Located just to the west of Richmond, Virginia, the house itself was of uncertain age, although it was said to have been built sometime in the very early nineteenth century. There had been several owners, each of whom had made plans to restore the place to its original condition, but none of the plans came to fruition. No one, you see, ever had remained alive in the house through a single night. There were tales of a curse, but they conflicted in almost every particular except one. The beginning of the series of deaths within the old walls was when someone's body was found hanging in the parlor. The house, its furnishings representing several deliveries made by several new owners, was of strong and durable construction. At the time of our story it had been uninhabited for nine years, but all that was to change. So vowed Cyril Sutton, who had made a name for himself as a minor debunker of the supernatural, and who thought the stories of Hanging House were just so much balderdash.
