The Pulp Fiction Megapack
Page 1
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Over the last year, our “Megapack” series of ebook anthologies has proved to be one of our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt, Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, Sam Cooper, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!).
* * * *
For The Pulp Fiction Megapack, we selected stories with great pulp titles. (Where else are you going to find titles like “Blood for the Vampire Dead,” “Mistress of Snarling Death,” or “When Super-Apes Plot”?) Of course, these stories were all written in a different time, with different standards of what was acceptable. They are decidedly not politically correct by modern standards. Please go into them aware of this fact, and if you are offended by racism, stereotypes, bad writing, sadism, or anything else prevalent in cheap literature of the early 20th century...well, this may not be the best book for you. But if you can sit back and enjoy these stories for what they are—simple titlations from another era—you may find some surprising treats.
A NOTE FOR KINDLE READERS
The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your reader.)
RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?
Do you know a great forgotten story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).
Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.
TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone (and email a revised copy to you when it’s updated, in either epub or Kindle format). You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above.
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
THE MEGAPACK SERIES
The Adventure Megapack
The Christmas Megapack
The Second Christmas Megapack
The Cowboy Megapack
The Craig Kennedy Scienctific Detective Megapack
The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack
The Ghost Story Megapack
The Horror Megapack
The Macabre Megapack
The Martian Megapack
The Military Megapack
The Mummy Megapack
The Mystery Megapack
The Science Fiction Megapack
The Second Science Fiction Megapack
The Third Science Fiction Megapack
The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack
The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack
The Penny Parker Megapack
The Pulp Fiction Megapack
The Steampunk Megapack
The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack
The Tom Swift Megapack
The Vampire Megapack
The Western Megapack
The Wizard of Oz Megapack
AUTHOR MEGAPACKS
The Andre Norton Megapack
The B.M. Bower Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The Rafael Sabatini Megapack
COPYRIGHT INFO
The Pulp Fiction Megapack is copyright © 2013 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved.
* * * *
“Blood of the Vampire Dead,” by Robert Leslie Bellem, originally appeared in Mystery Tales, March 1940.
“Mistress of Snarling Death,” by Paul Chadwick, originally appeared in Ace Mystery, July 1936.
“Fiances for the Devil’s Daughter,” by Russell Gray originally appeared in Marvel Tales, May 1940.
“The Shrieking Pool,” by G. T. Fleming-Roberts originally appeared in Mystery Novels magazine, February 1936.
“Death Mates for the Lust-Lost,” by Hugh J. Gallagher, originally appeared in Mystery Novels and Short Stories magazine, July 1940.
“The Dogs of Purgatory,” By Hugh Pendexter, originally appeared in Complete Northwest Novel Magazine, June 1936.
“When Manhattan Sank,” by George S. Brooks, originally appeared in Complete Stories, July 1927.
“Bride of the Ape,” by Harold Ward, originally appeared in Mystery Novels and Short Stories magazine, September 1939.
“Blood Bait for Hungry Mermaids,” by John wallace, originally appeared in Mystery Tales, December 1939.
“Ship of the Golden Ghoul,” by Lazar Levi, originally appeared in Mystery Novels and Short Stories, September 1939.
“Black Pool for Hell Maidens,” by Hal K. Wells, originally appeared in Mystery Tales, June 1938.
“Death Flight,” by Robert Wallace, originally appeared in Phantom Detective magazine, June 1935.
“The Scalpel of Doom,” by Ray Cummings, originally appeared in Ten Detective Aces, February 1947.
“Servant of the Beast,” by L. Patrick Greene originally appeared in Action Novels, April 1930.
“The Dead Book,” by Howard Hersey, originally appeared in The Thrill Book, July 15, 1919.
“The Brain of Many Bodies,” by E.A. Grosser, originally appeared in Science Fiction, October 1940.
“Tong Torture,” by Emile C. Tepperman, originally appeared in Secret Agent “X”, August 1934.
“The Ray of Madness,” by Captain S. P. Meek, originally appeared in Astounding Stories of Super-Science, April 1930.
“The Terrible Tentacles of L-472,” by Sewell Peaslee Wright, originally appeared in Astounding Stories of Super-Science, September 1930.
“The Ape-Men of Xlotli,” by David R. Sparks, originally appeared in Astounding Stories of Super-Science, December 1930.
“The Floating Island of Madness,” by Jason Kirbyoriginally appeared in Astounding Stories of Super-Science, January 1933.
“The Corpse on the Grating,” by Hugh B. Cave, originally appeared in Astounding Stories of Super-Science, February 1930.
BLOOD FOR THE VAMPIRE DEAD, by Robert Leslie Bellem
Over the wind’s midnight howling and the demoniac swirl of the mountain rainstorm came the frantic cry of a man harassed by some hideous mental torment. “Doc Croft! For God’s sake open up afore hit’s too late!”
Tim Croft, recently assigned by the state health authorities to take charge of this tiny charity hospital in the deep Ozarks, came abruptly awake as he heard the agonized call punctuated by an insistent hammering on the front door of his cabin, which was located to one side of the hospital proper. He slid his feet into worn slippers, made a light, crossed the cabin’s single room and opened the rough, hard-hewn door.
A spindrift of rain flurried at him, and with it came the man who had called out so despairingly. He was Jeb Starko from up in Haunted Hollow, a mile beyond the ridge—an area bedeviled, according to local superstition, by ghosts and similar evil creatures of the night. Soaked to the skin, his unshaven face pasty with fear, Starko stumbled over the threshold. “You got to stop ’em, doc!” he mouthed. “They’re a-comin’ to git my Eula!”
“The Ludwells from down in the flats, damn ’em! They’re a-sayin’ as how Eula is a witch-vampire like the hants that roam the ridge, an’ they’re aimin’ to kill her. They’ll do for you an’ your nurses, too, if you ain’t careful!”
Croft’s nostrils pinched in as he drew a deep breath. The Ludwells were members of a clan which, from the very outset, had fiercely resented his coming to the region as only the deeply superstitious can resent progress. More than once they had muttered dark threats against him because of his efforts to educate the natives away from their old beliefs in herbs and charms and devil-magic philtres. If it were really true that they were now on their way to the hospital, then trouble was definitely brewing.
There was an old revolver in the top drawer of Tim Croft’s desk. He got it and thrust it into the pocket of his bathrobe. Then he pivoted as he heard scurrying footfalls behind him. His day nurse, Brenda Lemoyne, came pelting into the room, clad in a slicker over her nightgown. Daintily blonde and alluringly pretty, she panted: “Tim, darling, what’s wrong? I heard a commotion—”
His arm went possessively about her slender waist. Some day Brenda would be his wife, when he had achieved a promotion to some more important post; and because his love for her was so great, he frowned uneasily at her presence in his quarters now. “You should have stayed in your cabin with Edith Paxon,” he said gravely, referring to the nurse who shared duty with Brenda.
“But—but Edith isn’t there. I looked for her before I came over here, but I couldn’t find her. Tim—tell me what the trouble is!”
“The Ludwells are on their way here.”
“The Ludwells? Oh, Tim, I—I’m frightened!”
“I’ll handle them,” he said evenly.
She shivered as she clung to him. “Maybe you won’t be able to. You know how they hate us, Tim. And that Lige Ludwell is…dangerous. Only today, down in the village, somebody told me Lige turned his own daughter out into the storm after whipping her with a leather strap—because she’d fallen in love with a boy Lige disliked. A man capable of doing a thing like that is capable of doing…uglier things.”
Croft summoned a smile. “Maybe they won’t come here, after all.”
Even as he spoke the words, the trembling Jeb Starko pointed through the open doorway toward the road. “Don’t fool yourself, doc. Here they be now!”
Tim Croft peered into the storm and saw a group of grim-visaged men slogging forward through the ankle-deep mud. Three carried lanterns, while the remaining pair bore a limp burden that sagged gruesomely between them. It was the inert form of a young girl, stripped stark naked and horribly pallid in the lantern glow.
Some inner sixth sense told Croft that the unclad girl was dead, and apprehension seized him when he recognized her as Lige Ludwell’s daughter and saw the marks of a whiplash on her nude flesh. Lige was the acknowledged leader of the Ludwell clan, the bearded and sullen herb-dispenser responsible for most of the bad feeling against the hospital. But what had caused his girl’s death, and why should he bring her body here?
The five surly mountaineers halted outside the door, and glowering Lige Ludwell stepped forward a truculent pace. “We-uns got business with you, doc,” he announced savagely.
“What kind of business?”
“We-uns want the witch-vampire.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Hit’s Eula Starko we-uns air after. She vampired my datter, here. She kilt her an’ drank up her blood.” He gestured toward the pallid corpse held by his clansmen.
Croft’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no such thing as a witch-vampire. That’s nonsense.”
“No hit ain’t, Doc Croft. You’re a-harborin’ Eula Starko here in your horspital an’ you know she’s a blood-drinkin’ vampire. She hexed my datter up to the holler tonight an’ kilt her. Now we-uns air aimin’ to take her away from you an’ drive a hick’ry stake through her heart, by God!”
Jeb Starko clutched at Croft’s arm. “Don’t let ’em git my Eula!” he choked. “She hain’t no witch-vampire. She—she’s jest sick.”
“No, Jeb. I won’t let them take her. But she isn’t sick. It’s worse than that.” Tim Croft turned to the Ludwells. “I can prove you’re wrong when you accuse Eula Starko of killing your girl tonight. You see, Eula died at four o’clock this afternoon.”
A wild cry surged from Jeb Starko’s thin throat. “My Eula—dead? God, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Hold it, Jeb. We did everything we possibly could for her. I told you at the start that she was suffering from nephrosis. That’s an extremely rare disease, and very few cases ever pull through. You knew the treatment we were giving her. I’m sorry, old fellow. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was just Eula’s time to go, I guess.” Starko shambled out into the rain, dazed, his bony shoulders shaking, his sobs rising above the wail of the wind. Meanwhile, Lige Ludwell came pushing into the cabin, bearded jaw jutting pugnaciously. “You say the witch-vampire’s dead. We-uns don’t believe you. We-uns want to see her corpse.”
“I’m not compelled to show it to you, but I’m willing to let you look at her, just to prove my point,” Croft answered steadily. “First, though, I’ll examine your daughter. I want to know what caused her death.”
They brought the Ludwell girl into the room and placed her naked body on the floor. And then Brenda Lemoyne gasped: “Tim—look!” She pointed a trembling forefinger.
He felt his scalp tightening. Marring the too-white flesh of the dead girl’s throat, full over the jugular vein, were four deep incisions that looked as if they might have been made by the teeth of some sharp-fanged beast!
“Good God!” Tim Croft whispered as he went to his knees for a closer inspection of the wounds. Then he looked at the clansmen who clustered around him. “How did this happen? Tell me about it!”
Lige Ludwell snarled: “Reckon mebbe you’ll be a-changin’ your mind about witch-vampires now. Anybody can tell what kind of thing made them tooth-marks.”
“Will you forget the witch-vampires and answer my question? I want to know how this happened.”
“How do we know? We-uns jest found her a-hangin’ to a tree limb in the holler by Haunted Creek. A-hangin’ upside down, by God, an’ still warm to the touch. An’ she’d been bled white, jest the way you see her now. But there warn’t no blood on the airth underneath her.”
Croft blurted out the first words that popped into his mind. “Of course there wouldn’t be any blood. The rain washed it away, naturally. All the same, this is murder. Somebody killed the girl and then tried to make it look like the work of a vampire in order to alibi himself.” His mouth compressed, “I heard you whipped her and kicked her out of your house today because she was having a love affair. Maybe—”
Ludwell let out a bellow of rage. “Air you accusin’ me of killin’ my own datter? We-uns will git even with you for that, Doc Croft! Mark my words, you an’ your nurses will wish you’d never set foot in these here mountains afore I git through with you!” He balled his fists and looked ready to spring, his eyes glowing like those of some feral animal.
Croft drew his revolver, cocked it. “Keep your distance, Ludwell. I didn’t make any accusations. I merely stated a fact. As for your threats—well, you’re already trying to start trouble. By blaming the murder of your daughter on Eula Starko, you’re hoping to stir up a lot of ill will toward the hospital because we harbored her, as you call it. Well, I can put a stop to that. I’ve already told you that Eula died at four o’clock this afternoon. You say you found your girl later tonight—still warm. Dead people don’t commit murders.”
“Witch-vampires kin. Because they don’t die. Not really.”
“That’s crazy talk!” Croft snapped. He was growing tired of this superstitious palaver, this sinister harping on witches and vampi
res. Another ten or fifteen minutes of it and he’d be getting jittery himself. He stood upright. “Eula’s body is still in the hospital building where I left her when she died. I couldn’t make any arrangements for removing her corpse on account of the storm. Now come with me, all of you. I’ll prove what I’m saying.”
Muttering, the Ludwells permitted themselves to be herded out into the rain. Brenda Lemoyne kept very close to Tim Croft, while Jeb Starko trailed along behind. They crossed the clearing to the hospital building, a low, one-story structure of hewn logs, just large enough to accommodate four beds, a surgery and a dispensary. Croft opened the front door, waved the others in, and made a light.
Brenda Lemoyne’s hand flew to her mouth. “Tim!” she gasped. Her frightened gaze went to the mussed bed where Jeb Starko’s lovely young wife had reposed in death’s stillness. “Her body—it’s gone, Tim! Gone!”
It was true. The bed was empty. Cold sweat formed on Tim Croft’s palms, and he stifled the startled oath that leaped to his lips as he stared about the room. For a dead woman to vanish, to disappear into thin air of her own volition, was obviously impossible. Yet, apparently, that was what had happened.
“Eula! My Eula!” Jeb Starko strangled. He wheeled to face the scowling Ludwell clan. “You-all took her, damn your souls to hell! One of you came here an’ stole her away while the rest was a-talkin’ to Doc Croft! You—you—”
He would have leaped to attack the five burly clansmen, but Tim Croft grabbed him, pinioned him and fought him to calmness. And then Lige Ludwell, prowling toward the far end of the room, emitted a sudden roaring yell of triumph. “Come an’ look at this!” he shouted. “I reckon you’ll believe me now when I say Eula Starko is a witch-vampire!”
Everyone raced to the door through which Lige pointed, with the doctor in the lead. At the threshold, Croft froze in horror. “God in heaven!” he whispered as he stared into the surgery; and then he tried to shield the gruesome sight from Brenda Lemoyne.
In the little white-walled room, the missing night-nurse, Edith Paxon, hung suspended upside down and naked from an overhead rafter, her curvesome body swaying gently, like a pendulum, and her flesh a horrible fish-belly white. Exactly like the wounds on the throat of Lige Ludwell’s daughter, there were a series of sharp incisions over Edith Paxon’s jugular, and ruby rivulets ran down from the punctures to drip slowly on the floor. But the flow of blood had almost ceased; and that was a strange thing, because in spite of the obvious fact that the nurse’s veins had been completely drained, there was practically no blood on the floor beneath her head. Just a few spattered drops, and that was all!