The Pulp Fiction Megapack

by Robert Leslie Bellem

  The sinister ship swerved, swung in a foaming circle as no sailship manned by human hands had ever been able to do, and bore down swiftly on them again.

  The dead man at the wheel leered hideously ahead as he missed, this time by inches.

  Then began a nightmare chase through narrow rock-filled channels, around one island and behind another, a game with death. Only Howell’s superb seamanship had kept them thus far ahead. It was a gruesome ending to the pleasure sail they had joyfully planned.

  Now they were in open water again, the shore ominously in front, barred by foaming reefs, and the schooner driving headlong behind.

  On it came, every sail set; black, funereal, sinister, cleaving the water with silken deadliness. The corpse pilot grinned at them with eyeless sockets, his shapeless features bloody in the last darts of the sun.

  “It’s gaining on us,” Julia moaned.

  Bruce raced for the safety of the channel. The surf caught and lifted them high. It dropped them struggling into a trough.

  Julia shrieked. Half a length away, driving down on them with the blackness of doom, was the ghostly schooner. The corpse grinned with shapeless laughter. Bruce saw death approaching with express speed, flung the boat wallowing to one side.

  It was too late!

  Crash! C-r-r-ash! A ripping, rending sound. Bruce felt a violent blow on his leg, and went down into an angry welter of waters, down until his lungs were bursting with pressure.

  With a violent effort he heaved against the sucking whirlpool, shot gasping to the surface.

  White caps, snarling and foaming at his first escape, lapped at him. He fought them off, breasted a billow.

  “Julia!” he called, pounding anguish in his veins. Where was she? What had happened to her? The welter of foam, the slash of tumbling waters, brought back no encouraging cry. The dark was heavy on surf and rocks. No sign of their boat, no sign of anything. He swam desperately in circles, calling, seeking.

  Suddenly there was an answer. High above the roar of the surf it came. Laughter, full-throated, mocking, fled over the waters. Laughter from a woman’s throat, melodious with strange overtones, yet sinister, horrible.

  A wave slapped Bruce around, raised him high, facing the ocean. Then it dropped him into wallowing fury. In that instant he had seen.

  Far to the northwest, driving for the islands, was the schooner. Its black hull and blacker sails were silhouetted against the last agonies of the expiring sun. Red dripping gore filtered through gossamer canvas, framed the ghost ship in a bloody frame. The corpse pilot was hidden by cabin and masts.

  But in the stern, arms outstretched, stood a woman!

  The last shafts of frame bathed her curving, voluptuous figure, penetrated the single thin black garment that made little pretense of covering her.

  Her face was beautiful and white, the drained white of snow and paper and death’s grim mask. Her long, free hair was yellow with the yellow of molten furnaces, and lit with glinting red. Her rounded arms were bare, and the lines of her body, white, yet glowing behind the filmy covering, made sensuous, provocative allure.

  It was from her lips that the siren, mocking laughter came.

  A vision—of hell, or of heaven, Bruce did not know which. Dark came with a rush, the stars pricked out, and it was night! The schooner was swallowed up in blackness.

  Bruce shook his head to clear his bewildered brain, struck out again, crying: “Julia! Julia!” Despair clutched at him.

  A huge wave reared high, swarmed at him. It caught him, struggling, gasping, smashed him over pointed rocks and foaming reefs, further, further, until, crash! thought and feeling went out with a rush. The last thing he heard, or thought he heard, was a voice faintly calling for help.

  * * * *

  Bruce groaned, and put his hand to his head. It came away sticky; there was a lump on his temple that dripped. The universe seemed to revolve in ceaseless gyrations about him, but gradually it slowed. He looked around.

  Frowning cliffs made blacker masses against the night; glimmering white marked the line of beating surf. He was lying on a beach. Anguish tore at him. Julia was dead, drowned. That solitary fact beclouded the vision he had seen, the ghastly vessel with its ghastlier crew.

  Faint weeping came to him, drifting through the night. He sprang to his feet, hurts, pains, disregarded. “Julia!” he shouted frantically.

  “Bruce!” The sobbing ceased, unbelieving joy in the exclamation. “Where are you?”

  He ran stumbling over shifting pebbles to the dim white figure. He caught the girl in his arms. Her supple form, drenched, molded by jersey and slacks, lay limp for a moment, then she gently disengaged herself.

  “I thought you were dead!” he said.

  “And I was sure I’d never see you again,” she answered. “I was flung into the quiet channel, and it was easy to swim to shore.” She clung to him again. “What was that horrible ship that ran us down, and that dead man at the wheel?”

  Howell stroked her dripping hair, laughed uneasily. “I suppose we’ve seen the Flying Dutchman,” he tried to jest, “and we’re the first mortals to get away alive.”

  He said nothing of that final vision of the siren woman.

  Julia looked around. “Where are we? How shall we get back?”

  “I don’t know,” he confessed. “There may not be a village within twenty miles.”

  “And our boat?”

  “Sunk—without a trace.”

  She stood close. “I’m afraid of this place,” she shuddered. “I feel as if we’re being watched.”

  “Nonsense!” he said with forced lightness. “There isn’t a living person within miles.” But he, too, had felt the impact of invisible eyes. A strange dread swept over him. Something was terribly wrong with this beach.

  Julia let out a startled cry. “Did you hear that?”

  Bruce whirled. “What?” he demanded.

  “A slithering of pebbles, as if someone were creeping stealthily. Oh, Bruce, I’m so afraid!”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, and knew that he lied.

  * * * *

  For now, unmistakably, came the soft slow grind of stone against stone. Someone was moving out there.

  He tensed, cursing the fact that he had no gun. Nothing could be seen. There it was again, that grinding noise—nearer.

  Bruce catapulted through the darkness, arms outspread. A flailing left arm contacted solid form, whirled his own body around. He smacked into the ground, right hand swinging.

  A startled cry, a savage oath, and he was grappling furiously with a man. A blow thudded in his face. He lashed out with his fist. It crunched solidly into bone. A grunt of pain was the response. A hand broke free, slashed along his side. Fire seared his flesh. The hand held a knife. Bruce clutched blindly, caught the wrist, and twisted. There was a clatter of steel on stone and a curse.

  “Okay, brother,” Bruce said coldly. “Who the devil are you?”

  A scream blasted the night, a scream of terror. It was Julia’s voice, choked off into horrible silence.

  Howell flung his captive from him, sprinted toward the sound. Someone was running ahead, padding with sure feet over the loose terrain.

  “Halt, or I’ll shoot!” Bruce shouted. The moon tore the obscuring clouds to shreds, flung its wan light down on the beach. A dim figure, bowed over, humped gigantically in wavering white mist, fled before him. It dropped its hump with a dull thud to the ground, and melted into deep-pooled shadows.

  * * * *

  Bruce checked his fierce pounding. He could never catch the fugitive now. That shapeless bundle, flung from shoulders to the beach, lying limp, immovable, brought him to a stop. He dropped to his knees, caught a white, wan hand. “Julia, are you hurt?”

  The girl opened her eyes, terror-filled. There were bruises on her throat, where fingers had choked off screams; one white shoulder gleamed through a rent in the jersey.

  “He—he’s gone?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” B
ruce nodded.

  “He came on me—suddenly. He almost strangled me; his grip was like steel.”

  Bruce helped her to her feet. Her slim form shivered, and her naked shoulder pierced the semi-darkness disturbingly.

  “You’re all right, now,” he assured her. “But—but what does it all mean?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” he said grimly. His mouth was a hard line. He retraced his steps, looking for the man he had knocked out.

  The man was gone!

  Bruce circled around. There was no trace of the prowler. He had melted into nothingness just as Julia’s assailant had done. Even the knife had disappeared.

  The cliffs vaulted them on three sides, beetling, terrifying. The fog was thicker on the sea; only the surge of the breakers could be heard. But something like a blob against the precipice, one hundred yards back from the beach, caught his eye.

  “That looks like a house,” he said. “We’re going there, Julia.”

  The girl shrank back. “Who could live in a spot like this?” she whispered fearfully. “It might be—”

  “It might be anything,” Bruce said with a certain tightness.

  Together they stumbled over rocks and sank into wet sands. The mist swirled and played tricks on their eyes. At last, the house loomed solidly before them.

  In the wan, fog-distorted light it looked gigantic. A rough-timbered place three stories high, with rambling wings that faded indistinguishably into the cliffside. Heavy wooden shutters barred the windows.

  Bruce marched boldly to the blank-eyed door. Julia said in hushed tones, “Don’t go, please. It looks deserted, but I feel eyes watching us from inside.”

  His balled fist thudded heavily against solid panels.

  “Open up!” he shouted.

  “Come away,” Julia cried, tugging at his arm. Bruce slammed against the timbers.

  “I know there’s someone inside,” he commanded. “Open up, I say.”

  Strange padding noises within, the creaking of bolts. The door swung slowly open. A man stood silhouetted, holding a lantern. His other hand clutched a huge revolver.

  He scowled. He was of medium height, but powerfully built, and his dress was the dress of the Maine woods—khaki shirt and khaki pants tucked into heavy boots.

  “Stand where you are,” he growled.

  “Lower that gun!” Bruce snapped. “There’s a girl with me. Our boat was sunk out in the bay, and we just managed to make the shore.”

  The man seemed startled. His gun hand jerked. “You came from the bay side? Then, by God…!”

  A peevish voice shrilled from above. “What’s all the palaver about, Jerry?”

  Jerry’s face went respectful. “There’s a couple out here, Mister Stapleton, man an’ woman. They claim t’ come from the bay.”

  The unseen voice went shriller.

  “Don’t let them in, Jerry. Bar the door—quick.” Jerry thrust out his gun hand. But Bruce was too fast He shoved his foot inside the door, backed against the door lintel.

  “No, you don’t,” he said calmly. “We’re not murderers. We’ve been cast ashore, I tell you, and Miss Hunt can’t sleep out in the open.”

  A new voice spoke from within the house. It was genial, hearty.

  “Don’t let your crazy fears get the better of you, Cuthbert,” it boomed. “I’ll bet these folks are normal humans like ourselves.”

  Light flooded the interior, illumined the great main room with stone fireplace and luxurious equipment of a millionaire’s hunting lodge. It also etched out the huge curving staircase, and the two men peering down.

  They descended together; one with confident thumping stride and the other cautiously.

  The big confident man was ruddy of face and cold of eye. He flicked his gaze appreciatively over the girl, rested a second too long on the half-disclosed breast, and boomed humorously:

  “Welcome to our humble dwelling. I’m George Kober, owner and stuck with this hunting lodge. I bought it sight unseen from Stapleton here, and would sell it back to him for half the price. But he’s smart; he had the nerve to offer me just a quarter of what I paid him.”

  Stapleton flushed angrily. He was small and wiry, with a predatory nose and a shrill voice.

  “Damn you, Kober!” he said thickly. “I wouldn’t take it back as a gift now. It was you who came to me with the proposition to buy it. I hadn’t been near the place for two years.”

  The big man eyed him curiously. “You knew about that ghost ship? Maybe that’s your game; selling the place to honest folk at fancy prices and then scaring them off so they’ll give it back to you for a song. Better’n the jewelry racket, eh?”

  Stapleton laughed shrilly: “Honest, folks! That’s a good one. Retired bootlegger, or maybe not so retired, ha! ha!”

  The false geniality fled from Kober’s face. Murder peeped from his unwinking eyes. The men glared at each other.

  Jerry shifted his revolver slightly. It held a bead on Kober’s belly.

  “We still ain’t heard what brought these here two to Sutter’s Point.”

  Kober swiveled, saw the carelessly pointed gun. He took a deep breath. He said quickly: “That’s right, Dunn.”

  Bruce, dripping wet, said calmly: “You haven’t given us a chance.” Julia clung to his arm. “I’m Bruce Howell and this is Julia Hunt. We were spending our vacation sailing along the coast. We saw this bay and thought we’d explore. But someone else thought differently. A black schooner with black sails and a dead man for a pilot deliberately ran us down.”

  Stapleton let out a groan. Kober’s jaw went slack; he took a step backward.

  Dunn’s face was a bitter mask. “The Black Ship!” he breathed. He swerved on the others. “I told you I saw it again, sailing down the islands without a breath o’ wind stirring. Mister,” he said to Bruce, “you’re lucky. Ain’t anyone ever escaped the Black Ship afore.”

  Stapleton moaned softly. “I’m going back to Boston.”

  Kober snarled: “You sold me a bill of goods, Cuthbert, an’ you’re staying as my guest.”

  Bruce stared slowly from man to man. There was strange tension here. Nor had the mystery of the double attack been explained. He had been careful not to mention it. Yet, none of them could have been the man with whom he had fought.

  “What about the Black Ship?” he asked.

  Jerry’s brows were a straight gash. “Once, mister, this here cove was a fishing village. Mr. Stapleton had this place built five years ago for a huntin’ and fishin’ lodge. I was his caretaker an’ guide. I kinda know these woods pretty well. Then the Black Ship came, last summer. No one on board, only a dead man. It ran down our boats, one by one. Not a man ever got away to say how. An’ each time the dead pilot changed. The body of a fisherman what had been drowned from the last boat. So those what was left quit cold. Ain’t another soul within twenty miles of this place.”

  “You remained,” Bruce pointed out.

  Jerry’s face twitched. “Not me,” he said emphatically. “I wrote Mr. Stapleton an’ lit out with the rest. Only came back now ’cause he wired me he sold the place, an’ was coming out with the new owner. Wanted me t’ fix things up a bit. But I’m a going.”

  Kober fixed him with a cold, fishy eye. “You’re staying, Dunn.”

  The woodsman turned on him snarling; relaxed suddenly.

  Another man entered the room, a pasty-faced, gaunt individual. His hand rested in his coat pocket, and a suspicious bulge snouted directly at Jerry.

  “Okay, Mr. Kober,” said Dunn.

  Bruce started. His eyes and the eyes of the newcomer clashed. There was baleful hatred in the other’s glance.

  The left side of his face was puffed up, and one eye was rimmed with black and half-closed.

  Kober grunted with a satisfied air, “That’s fine.

  You can go now, Slim.” Then, for the first time, he caught sight of the man full-faced. “For the love o’ Pete, Slim, what happened to your mug?”

&nbs
p; “Fell down stairs,” the man answered unwillingly.

  Bruce thought it was time to interrupt. “Miss Hunt is soaked through; so am I. Suppose we get a chance to dry our clothes and get some sleep.”

  Kober said: “Sure! Jerry, get these folks comfortable, and I mean comfortable, see?”

  Dunn’s face twisted into a mask.

  Kober tapped his teeth thoughtfully with a pencil. “And to make sure you don’t get ideas, you or Cuthbert, your old boss, let’s have your gun.”

  The guide’s eyes flamed. Without a word he turned his weapon over.

  Kober pocketed it, and spoke jovially to Bruce, the while his eye fastened on Julia with a speculative luster. “Good fellow to have around, Slim is. As a matter of fact, he’s to blame for my buying this joint Was up here last year—on private business of his own.”

  Slim’s face, puffed as it was, went white.

  Bruce was abnormally wakeful on that night. He lay quietly, listening. Julia, exhausted from the terrors of the day, lay asleep in the next room. Their clothes had been dried before a log fire. Some faint precautionary instinct caused him to go fully clad to bed.

  Each of the four men who occupied this house had something on his mind, something that boded no good for the other three, nor, for that matter, for their unwilling guests. And Kober’s eye had lurked too long on Julia’s beauty, so had Slim’s slinking side glance.

  Slim, without question, was the man who had followed them on the beach. Who, though, was the other, the one who tried to abduct Julia? He determined to stay awake. His last thoughts were of the murderous Corpse Ship and that strange, seductive yellow gold woman. Then fatigue and anxiety claimed him.

  He awoke to a woman’s terrified scream, to the scuffling of bodies. He cleared the bed, raced to the door, flung it wide, slammed down the darkened corridor, crashed heavily against the door of Julia’s room. It gave way with a splintering sound.

  The moon cast ghastly shadows on the rumpled, unoccupied bed, the papered walls. A great fear pounded in Bruce’s veins. Outside, silhouetted against the dull gleam of the night, was a face, half-turned to peer inside. One instant it was there, grotesque, mustachioed, broad, thick lips bared back from fang-like teeth, then it was gone.