by Otto Penzler
“There is something in that berth!” he cried, in a strange voice, his eyes almost starting from his head. “Hold the door, while I look—it shall not escape us, whatever it is!”
But instead of taking his place, I sprang upon the lower bed, and seized something which lay in the upper berth.
It was something ghostly, horrible beyond words, and it moved in my grip. It was like the body of a man long drowned, and yet it moved, and had the strength of ten men living; but I gripped it with all my might—the slippery, oozy, horrible thing. The dead white eyes seemed to stare at me out of the dusk; the putrid odour of rank sea-water was about it, and its shiny hair hung in foul wet curls over its dead face. I wrestled with the dead thing; it thrust itself upon me and forced me back and nearly broke my arms; it wound its corpse’s arms about my neck, the living death, and overpowered me, so that I, at last, cried aloud and fell, and left my hold.
As I fell the thing sprang across me, and seemed to throw itself upon the captain. When I last saw him on his feet his face was white and his lips set. It seemed to me that he struck a violent blow at the dead being, and then he, too, fell forward upon his face, with an inarticulate cry of horror.
The thing paused an instant, seeming to hover over his prostrate body, and I could have screamed again for very fright, but I had no voice left. The thing vanished suddenly, and it seemed to my disturbed senses that it made its exit through the open port, though how that was possible, considering the smallness of the aperture, is more than any one can tell. I lay a long time upon the floor, and the captain lay beside me. At last I partially recovered my senses and moved, and I instantly knew that my arm was broken—the small bone of the left forearm near the wrist.
I got upon my feet somehow, and with my remaining hand I tried to raise the captain. He groaned and moved, and at last came to himself. He was not hurt, but he seemed badly stunned.
WELL, DO YOU want to hear any more? There is nothing more. That is the end of my story. The carpenter carried out his scheme of running half a dozen four-inch screws through the door of one hundred and five; and if ever you take a passage in the Kamtschatka, you may ask for a berth in that state-room. You will be told that it is engaged—yes—it is engaged by that dead thing.
I finished the trip in the surgeon’s cabin. He doctored my broken arm, and advised me not to “fiddle about with ghosts and things” any more. The captain was very silent, and never sailed again in that ship, though it is still running. And I will not sail in her either. It was a very disagreeable experience, and I was very badly frightened, which is a thing I do not like. That is all. That is how I saw a ghost—if it was a ghost. It was dead, anyhow.
LITTLE IS KNOWN of the obscure pulp writer John R. Baxter, who produced only about a dozen stories using the pseudonym Ralston Shields. He seems to have written only for the lower-end weird menace pulp magazines owned by Popular Publications. These periodicals, also known as shudder pulps, were noted for their high levels of sex and sadism, pushing the boundaries of acceptability so far that they were finally forced out of business during World War II. Among his works of fiction, mostly novellas of between eight and twelve thousand words, were such understated horror tales as “The Blood Kiss” (Dime Mystery Magazine, May 1937), “Daughter of the Devil” (Horror Stories, October/November 1937), “Priestess of Pestilence” (Terror Tales, May/June 1939), “Food for the Fungus Lady” (Horror Stories, December 1939/January 1940), “The Dictator and the Zombie” (Terror Tales, January/February 1940), “Mistress of the Blood-Drinkers” (Horror Stories, March 1940), and “Tropic Voodoo” (Thrilling Adventure, May 1942). Although Shields is known only to pulp experts and aficionados today, a collection of his stories, which were noted for their superior literary quality and relatively subtle atmospheric power, is planned for the near future.
“Vengeance of the Living Dead” was originally published in the September 1940 issue of Terror Tales.
DINNER WAS FINISHED, the blinds were drawn, and a pleasant fire crackled in the hearth of Dr. Beswick’s informal but charming library. The Director of the Pardee-Fleischer Foundation for Scientific Research was seated at his large teakwood desk; he had summoned Kandru, his Negro servant, and was giving the man certain instructions. These instructions were unusual, to say the least; but the wrinkled ape-like face of the wizened little black showed no more astonishment than might have been expected if his master had been suggesting a menu for tomorrow’s dinner. Years ago, in the African bush, Dr. Beswick had saved Kandru from almost certain death; and from that time on, the little Negro had considered himself the personal property of the white man. By some strange quirk of primitive psychology, he had simply ceased to function as a separate individual; he had attached himself to Dr. Beswick’s personality as a kind of auxiliary intelligence, to be used as his master saw fit. The doctor’s own right hand would no more have failed to obey the dictates of his will, than his servant Kandru.
“Twenty years ago,” Beswick was saying, “when we first met in your native land, Kandru, you were the most skillful of your whole tribe in the use of a blow-gun. I fancy you must have fallen off a little since then, for lack of practise; but this room is not large. Suppose you were hidden with your tube behind the draperies of the window-recess yonder—do you think you could be dead sure, absolutely positive, of hitting a man inside this library with your first dart? There must be no mistake; Stuart is a powerful devil, strong as an ox; if the first dart misses, there may be no chance to send another. . . .”
Kandru regarded his master solemnly with tiny, deep-set, ape-like eyes. “Me hit um,” he grunted. During the twenty years he had spent in the United States, the man had learned to use only the most elementary English. And yet, although Dr. Beswick in addressing him never attempted to simplify his speech in the least, Kandru was never at a loss to understand; it almost seemed that he grasped Beswick’s intent by a kind of thought-transference.
“Very good.” In the doctor’s cold gray eyes, made all the more penetrating by the heavy lenses he wore, there flickered a glint of approval; after an instant, however, this was gone. Beswick’s every feature and physical characteristic seemed to indicate a nature that was chilly, uncommunicative, and implacable. He was a gaunt, slightly stooped man of about fifty, with iron-gray hair, narrow countenance and the clammy, unnaturally pallid complexion that often is associated with years of work in the unwholesome fumes and vapors of the scientific laboratory. Only one feature of the man’s physiognomy belied the impression that he was utterly a creature of the intellect, emotionless as an image of stone: his mouth—his moist, loose-lipped and full-blooded mouth. Here was a clue to an aspect of his character deeply buried under his external coldness: a hint that somewhere in the shadows of his soul lurked all the passions, hatreds and terrors of which human-kind is capable. Dr. Beswick’s appearance, his manner, even his choice of words in speaking, might be those of an austere and lofty-minded scientist, a paragon of the type whom the Twentieth Century claims for its highest human product; but his wet red lips could well have belonged to one of the abominable emperors of the Roman decadence—a Negro, a Tiberius, a Caligula. . . .
“Very good, Kandru, very good indeed . . . But I don’t want you to use one of your own African darts—do you understand that? The poison on such a dart would kill him in a few minutes; and I have other plans. Here—this afternoon, I made these, copying them exactly from your own. . . .” He handed the Negro four or five little wooden slivers, tipped at one end with sharp metal points, and tufted with lamb’s wool at the other.
“They should fit your blow-gun perfectly. The only difference between my darts and yours is in the poison smeared on the tips. Instead of dying, a man pricked by one of these will merely be paralyzed; after a few minutes, he will completely recover. However, it won’t take long for the two of us to tie up Dr. Stuart so he will be altogether helpless; and after that, I shall prefer that he regain complete possession of his faculties. . . .
“Now, let’s g
o over the whole thing, to be sure you understand what to do. Any time now, Dr. Stuart should arrive. When the bell rings, you must take these darts, and your tube, and stand in the window-recess, hidden by the curtain. I’ll let Stuart in myself. Probably he and I will talk for a while. Then I will go get my wife, and bring her into the room. When Stuart sees the B’wani Wanda, and realizes how she has—altered—since he left four months ago for Tibet, he will be very angry. There will be loud words. You must watch very closely then; you must have your blow-gun ready, lifted to your lips. Presently, I will take off my glasses; that will be your signal. You must send your dart; and you must not miss. Now is that all plain? Do you understand everything?”
Kandru nodded like an effigy of stained wood and wrinkled leather. “All plain,” he assented. “Kandru un’nerstand; him not miss. . . .”
Dr. Beswick continued for a long moment to hold his servant’s eyes with his own gaze; at the same time, he slowly ran his tongue over his lips, moistening them. “That will be all, Kandru,” he said, finally. “There is nothing more to do but wait for the door-bell to ring.”
He took up a pencil, and began to write on some clean sheets of paper which lay on the desk before him. As for the Negro, now that his master had finished speaking, he sank down silently before the hearth, and sat there gazing patiently into the heart of the leaping flames.
For perhaps twenty-five minutes they remained as they were, the doctor writing calmly at his desk, and Kandru squatting immovable and expressionless on his heels in the firelight. When the door-bell jangled at last, neither of them started, or betrayed the least nervous reaction. Kandru rose silently to his feet, and with his blow-gun and the darts which the doctor had given him, took his place behind the velvet curtains of the window-recess. Dr. Beswick only ran his tongue over his lips once more, and after a moment laid down his pencil. Presently he left his chair, and passed out of the library into the adjoining entrance hall.
Two minutes later, he returned to the pleasantly fire-lit room, ushering before him a huge man, powerfully built, tall and broad at the same time—really a splendid figure, his bearded face handsome after a bluff fashion, his deep-set and extremely blue eyes eloquent of a frank and forthright personality. Despite his full black beard, and a certain air of having experienced many things at the hands of life and fate, there was something youthful about him, a spring and zest in his movements which implied that he had yet to see his fortieth birthday.
“How very good to see you, my dear Stuart,” Dr. Beswick was saying; he had assumed a manner, which, for a man of his dour habits, was almost effusive. “Believe me, I’ve counted the days while you were gone; I can hardly wait to hear everything from your own lips. When I recommended to our Foundation that you be given the post as leader of the Tibetan expedition, I knew you’d make a success of the undertaking. I need scarcely say that the reports that have reached us of your discoveries have more than vindicated my judgement. But you can’t blame me for being eager to hear about your own personal adventures; I’m certain you have a great deal to tell. One doesn’t spend two months in Nepal and Tibet without a few hair’s breadth escapes. . . .
“But do sit down, my dear fellow, and make yourself comfortable. Here, this chair by the fire! And what will you have to drink? The regular thing for you, if I recall, is Scotch and plain water—do I have it right? And—oh, yes—before you begin, perhaps I’d better call Wanda; doubtless you’ll want her to be in on this. She always took such an—interest in your doings, old chap, before you left for the Orient. . . .”
TOM STUART SEATED himself in the chair indicated by his host; also he accepted the glass that was proffered him. However, before bringing the liquor to his lips, he spoke. “If you don’t mind, Beswick, I’d rather you didn’t call Wanda just yet. I—there are a few things I’d like to tell you, before she comes.”
BESWICK RAISED HIS eyebrows as if in mild surprise. “You mean—you saw things which go against our Western standards of good taste, and you feel it would be embarrassing to Wanda if you spoke of them in her presence? Is that it?”
But Stuart shook his head; he was silent for a moment before answering. His honest blue eyes were troubled, as if he were turning over in his mind something he did not want to say, and yet knew he could not avoid saying. At last, however, the words came from his lips, spoken as if by another volition than his own.
“Wanda’s hardly a prude or a puritan, Beswick. It isn’t likely that she’d be shocked by anything I have to relate. No, it’s another matter that I want to speak to you about—something personal—something that should have been settled before I ever left on the Pardee-Fleischer expedition.
“You know, I learned a good many things above and beyond the scientific data I was sent for, during these past months in the mountains of Asia. Even though I was able to classify a number of plants and animals entirely new to science, and to confirm at least one important anthropological hypothesis, I don’t regard those discoveries as the most important fruit of the journey.
“You know, Beswick, there are men living in the monasteries of Nepal and Tibet, who understand thoroughly certain aspects of Nature and the very existence of which is only beginning to be recognized by our Western science. I was able to win the confidence of one of these High Lamas, and he consented to teach me as much of his occult knowledge as my undeveloped intellect could absorb. At first, the things he told me struck me as so much superstitious gibberish, sheer fantasy and nothing more. . . .
“But this old lama was a man who dealt not only in words, but in deeds likewise. Through the aid of his powers, I was able to see things, and to experience things, which are entirely beyond my skill to describe. I can only say this much: I now possess an understanding of the nature of man, spiritual and physical, which transcends anything I had dreamed of before my visit to Tibet.
“To me, it is positive knowledge, more certain than any mere theory or hypothesis, that the human animal possesses a soul; that this intelligence, this real self, whatever you want to name it, is a separate spiritual entity which merely uses the body as a tool; and that this essence of personality survives the death of the body, untarnished and unchanged to the end of eternity. . . .”
As he spoke the explorer’s enthusiasm grew as if in spite of himself; he seemed to be carried away by his own words. But then he caught the glance of Dr. Beswick, which remained cold as ice, notwithstanding the warm cloak of cordiality he had chosen to draw over himself. Stuart checked himself almost abruptly.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I keep forgetting that some realities are purely personal. We have no business to ask others to take them seriously, on the mere face value of our words. What I’m really driving at is this, Beswick: the things I learned in Tibet have altered my whole scale of values, moral and ethical as well as intellectual. Whatever you may think of my reasons for this change in viewpoint, I must ask you to believe that the change itself is very real to me, very genuine. For example, it is no longer possible for me to practise a deception or a dishonesty of any sort. To a man who has looked deeply into the wonderful workings of the universe, as I have, integrity of mind and action is no longer a convenience—it somehow becomes a profound necessity.”
Beswick continued to regard his guest with an expression that revealed no more than a definite but altogether polite surprise. “But my dear fellow,” he remarked, “I still don’t understand. I wasn’t aware that you were inclined to dishonesty of any sort, even before your visit to the Himalayas.”
The troubled expression which had shown itself earlier on Stuart’s bluff features appeared again now, somewhat deepened if anything.
“But I have been dishonest, Beswick,” he said, slowly. “Dishonest in a matter which involves you as well as myself. That’s what I wanted to mention before Wanda comes into the room; I thought it would be—easier.
“I love her, you see; I’m in love with your wife. And I believe that she loves me. Wanda and I belong to each other, Beswick, ine
vitably and absolutely. It’s one of those things that can’t be mistaken; we shall belong to each other until the end of time. . . .”
CHAPTER TWO
THE STING OF FATE
Anxiously, Tom Stuart regarded the older man, as if trying to gauge the effect of this revelation. Beswick said nothing, however; he continued to sit there as if his visitor had just made some utterly casual remark about the weather. Stuart had no choice but to continue, amplifying and explaining his statement.
“There’s no use going into the beginnings of the matter,” he said, still choosing his words carefully and slowly. “When I accepted my post with the Foundation three years ago, it was inevitable that I should see Wanda from time to time, since she was your wife. Neither of us planned it deliberately; it simply happened, and there came a day when we had to face the facts. The development of the situation was not unusual; it was the old shabby story of firm resolves to make a clean breast of things, followed by one postponement after another.
“Not that our love was something to be ashamed of; I didn’t think so then, and I still don’t think so. As I said to begin with, such things are inevitable, and it is foolish to deny them. The sordid part of it was our cowardice in attempting concealment, because it was easier to avoid issues than to face them.
“Do you remember the night, four months ago, when you invited me here to dinner? Wanda and I had resolved that we would hide our love no longer; we’d tell you that evening for sure, and ask you to consent to a divorce—trusting that you would understand and forgive. But then you told me that I had been selected to lead the expedition to Tibet; and somehow—that changed everything. . . .”
At this point in his confession, Stuart’s bronzed cheeks flushed dull brick red. He cast down his eyes. “It’s not a very pretty thing to admit, Beswick—that sudden change in our resolution. It sounds almost as if—as if Wanda and I had feared that you would change your mind about giving me the leadership of the Tibetan party—as if we thought you small enough to allow personal affairs to influence you in such a matter. I’m afraid there isn’t much I can say to defend our conduct, Beswick.”
