Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  I sprang then, or, at least, I tried to. The blade of the knife sheared down, straight for Futaine’s white shirtfront. It was arrested in midair. Yet he had not moved. His eyes had bored into mine, suddenly, terribly, and it seemed as though a wave of fearful energy had blasted out at me—paralyzing me, rendering me helpless. I stood rigid. Veins throbbed in my temples as I tried to move—to bring down the knife. It was useless. I stood as immovable as a statue.

  The Chevalier brushed past me.

  “Follow,” he said almost casually, and like an automaton I swung about, began to move along the passage. What hellish hypnotic power was this that held me helpless?

  Futaine led the way upstairs. It was not yet dark, although the sun had gone down. I followed him into a room, and at his gesture dropped into a chair. At my side was a small table. The Chevalier touched my arm gently, and something like a mild electric shock went through me. The knife dropped from my fingers, clattering to the table.

  Jean was standing rigidly near by, her eyes dull and expressionless. Futaine moved to her side, put an arm about her waist. My mouth felt as though it were filled with mud, but somehow I managed to croak out articulate words.

  “Damn you, Futaine! Leave her alone!”

  He released her, and came toward me, his face dark with anger.

  “You fool, I could kill you now, very easily. I could make you go down to the busiest comer of Hollywood and slit your throat with that knife. I have the power. You have found out much, apparently. Then you know—my power.”

  “Yes,” I muttered thickly. “I know that. You devil—Jean is mine!”

  The face of a beast looked into mine. He snarled, “She is not yours. Nor is she—Jean. She is Sonya!”

  I remembered what Futaine had murmured when he had first seen Jean. He read the question in my eyes.

  “I knew a girl like that once, very long ago. That was Sonya. They killed her—put a stake through her heart, long ago in Thurn. Now that I’ve found this girl, who might be a reincarnation of Sonya—they are so alike—I shall not give her up. Nor can anyone force me.”

  “You’ve made her a devil like yourself,” I said through half-paralyzed lips.

  “I’d rather kill her——”

  Futaine turned to watch Jean. “Not yet,” he said softly. “She is mine—yes. She bears the stigmata. But she is still—alive. She will not become—wampyr—until she has died, or until she has tasted the red milk. She shall do that tonight.” I cursed him bitterly, foully. He touched my lips, and I could utter no sound. Then they left me—Jean and her master. I heard a door close quietly.

  THE night dragged on. Futile struggles had convinced me that it was useless to attempt escape—I could not even force a whisper through my lips. More than once I felt myself on the verge of madness—thinking of Jean, and remembering Futaine’s ominous words. Eventually agony brought its own surcease, and I fell into a kind of coma, lasting for how long I could not guess. Many hours had passed, I knew, before I heard footsteps coming toward my prison.

  Jean moved into my range of vision. I searched her face with my eyes, seeking for some mark of a dreadful metamorphosis. I could find none. Her beauty was unmarred, save for the terrible little wounds on her throat. She went to a couch and quietly lay down. Her eyes closed.

  The Chevalier came past me and went to Jean’s side. He stood looking down at her. I have mentioned before the incongruous youthfulness of his face. That was gone now. He looked old—old beyond imagination.

  At last he shrugged and turned to me. His fingers brushed my lips again, and I found that I could speak. Life flooded back into my veins, bringing lancing twinges of pain. I moved an arm experimentally. The paralysis was leaving me.

  The Chevalier said, “She is still—clean. I could not do it.”

  Amazement flooded me. My eyes widened in disbelief.

  Futaine smiled wryly. “It is quite true. I could have made her as myself—undead. But at the last moment I forbade her.” He looked toward the windows. “It will be dawn soon.”

  I glanced at the knife on the table beside me. The Chevalier put out a hand and drew it away.

  “Wait,” he said. “There is something I must tell you, Mart Prescott. You say that you know who and what I am.”

  I nodded.

  “Yet you cannot know,” he went on. “Something you have learned, and something you have guessed, but you can never know me. You are human, and I am—the undead.

  “Through the ages I have come, since first I fell victim to another vampire—for thus is the evil spread. Deathless and not alive, bringing fear and sorrow always, knowing the bitter agony of Tantalus, I have gone down through the weary centuries. I have known Richard and Henry and Elizabeth of England, and ever have I brought terror and destruction in the night, for I am an alien thing. I am the undead.”

  The quiet voice went on, holding me motionless in its weird spell.

  “I, the vampire. I, the accursed, the shining evil, negotium perambulans in tenebris . . . but I was not always thus. Long ago in Thurn, before the shadow fell upon me, I loved a girl—Sonya. But the vampire visited me, and I sickened and died—and awoke. Then I arose.

  “It is the curse of the undead to prey upon those they love. I visited Sonya. I made her my own. She, too, died, and for a brief while we walked the earth together, neither alive nor dead. But that was not Sonya. It was her body, yes, but I had not loved her body alone. I realized too late that I had destroyed her utterly.

  “One day they opened her grave, and the priest drove a stake through her heart, and gave her rest. Me they could not find, for my coffin was hidden too well. I put love behind me then, knowing that there was none for such as I.

  “Hope came to me when I found—Jean. Hundreds of years have passed since Sonya crumbled to dust, but I thought I had found her again. And—I took her. Nothing human could prevent me.”

  The Chevalier’s eyelids sagged. He looked infinitely old.

  “Nothing human. Yet in the end I found that I could not condemn her to the hell that is mine. I thought I had forgotten love. But, long and long ago, I loved Sonya. And, because of her, and because I know that I would only destroy, as I did once before, I shall not work my will on this girl.”

  I turned to watch the still figure on the couch. The Chevalier followed my gaze and nodded slowly.

  “Yes, she bears the stigmata. She will die, unless”—he met my gaze unflinchingly—“unless I die. If you had broken into the vault yesterday, if you had sunk that knife into my heart, she would be free now.” He glanced at the windows again. “The sun will rise soon.”

  Then he went quickly to Jean’s side. He looked down at her for a moment.

  “She is very beautiful,” he murmured. “Too beautiful for hell.”

  The Chevalier swung about, went toward the door. As he passed me he threw something carelessly on the table, something that tinkled as it fell. In the portal he paused, and a little smile twisted the scarlet lips. I remembered him thus, framed against the black background of the doorway, his sleek blond head erect and unafraid. He lifted his arm in a gesture that should have been theatrical, but, somehow, wasn’t.

  “And so farewell. I who am about to die——”

  He did not finish. In the faint grayness of dawn I saw him striding away, heard his footsteps on the stairs, receding and faint—heard a muffled clang as of a great door closing. The paralysis had left me. I was trembling a little, for I realized what I must do soon. But I knew I would not fail.

  I glanced down at the table. Even before I saw what lay beside the knife, I knew what would be there. A silver key . . .

  WE ARE THE DEAD

  A poignant, brief tale of a weird experience in Arlington Cemetery

  SENATOR KENNICOTT was grateful for the cool night wind on his flushed fare. He wished Hobson, walking slowly at his side, would stop his interminable argument about the bill. The man’s high-pitched, rather unpleasant voice seemed out of place, incongruous in the pea
ceful hush of Arlington Cemetery.

  Hobson was panting a little, his fleshy, well-massaged face creased in annoyance. The walk through the cemetery had been no hardship to the slim, whipcord body of the Senator, but Hobson was not used to walking. Kennicott had felt that a stroll homeward from the banquet would calm his turbulent thoughts, excited by the innumerable activities of Memorial Day; and Hobson, anxious to settle the matter of the bill, had rather unwillingly decided to accompany him.

  “It may bring us closer to war,” the Senator said, breaking in sharply on Hobson’s involved explanation.

  “Not at all. It’s merely preparedness.” Hobson’s sharp little eyes searched the other’s face. “We must protect American interests in foreign countries. Surely——”

  “But this is very—aggressive,” Kennicott objected. “After all, we don’t want the hatred of other countries.”

  “Oh, come now! That’s going it a bit strong. I’ve already explained how——”

  “But—war,” the Senator said, looking absently at a tombstone in the distance.

  “There’ll be no war,” Hobson insisted somewhat shrilly. “If I thought this bill were really dangerous I’d be the first to demand its withdrawal.”

  “How much do you stand to make out of it?” the Senator asked abruptly. “Well—never mind. That’s scarcely a fair question. Can’t we let this go till tomorrow, Hobson? I’m so utterly tired!” Hobson stared at him for a moment. Then, choosing his words with care, he said, “The bill really should go through, Senator. I think it will—assure your securing the nomination next year.”

  Kennicott looked at him keenly, little lines bracketing his mouth. Hobson’s support was valuable—in fact, indispensable. If he were to withdraw it.

  Glancing sideways at his companion, the Senator almost walked into a shadowy, slim figure that stood quietly in the darkness beneath a tall elm.

  A drawn, white face was turned to Kennicott, and he felt a sudden sense of shock at the agony in the dark, brooding eyes. It was a young man, almost a boy, with deep lines of pain etched in his face.

  “I’m sorry,” the Senator said quickly, glancing at the boy’s faded, worn khaki uniform. “I didn’t see you.”

  The boy made no answer, and the Senator made a tentative movement to pass on. Abruptly the youthful, haggard face was turned away, and the boy said in a muffled tone, “I can’t sleep.”

  “Eh?” Kennicott stared.

  “I say I can’t sleep,” the boy repeated, his voice dull with pain.

  Hobson made a clucking sound of commiseration and glanced at the Senator.

  Kennicott felt it surge of sympathy. The obvious youthfulness of the boy was so incongruous with his taut face, the White tortured line of his lips.

  “I know,” Kennicott said, “It can be terrible. I had insomnia for almost a week once.”

  “A week,” the other said scornfully.

  “That’s nothing. It’s been ages——”

  Kennicott was scribbling something on the back of an envelope. “Be with you in a minute,” he said under his breath to Hobson, who was chafing at the delay. “Here—any druggist can fill this,” he said, giving the paper to the boy. “It will fix you up if anything can. I know how you feel,” he ended sympathetically.

  The youth took it skeptically and thrust it into a pocket. “Thanks just the same,” he said oddly. “It’s always like this on Memorial Day—it’s worse then, you know.”

  HOBSON moved impatiently, his pale eyes flickering uneasily over the boy’s form.

  “Oh,” the Senator said understandingly. “I see—but—look here, aren’t you rather young to——”

  “Am I?” the youth asked. “I’m not so young as I look. I was in the war, all right.”

  Hobson gave a grunt of disbelief. Even the Senator felt that the boy was lying. True, his face was worn, haggard—but he couldn’t be over twenty-five at most. Probably he didn’t mean the World War. There were always battles going on—Manchuria, South America, Africa.

  “Well—you get those powders,” the Senator said after an awkward pause. “I’m sure they’ll do the trick.” He cleared his throat. “Can you use——” He drew out his wallet rather hesitantly, but the boy was not offended.

  “No, thanks,” he said, a boyish grin suddenly appearing on his face. Then it was gone, replaced by that strained expression of pain. He suddenly seemed to notice a low, gray tombstone near by, and took a few slow steps toward it. “Poor fool,” he murmured very softly.

  The Senator looked away quickly. It was a shock to hear Hobson’s high-pitched, rasping voice. Had the man no intelligence, no decency? Kennicott put up a restraining hand, but it was too late.

  “Oh—come, come,” Hobson was saying. “Don’t say a thing like that, son. It isn’t right.”

  “Come on,” Kennicott urged under his breath, but the boy interrupted him.

  “Why not?” he asked, a sharp note in his tired young voice. “Wasn’t he a fool?”

  Hobson would try to argue with the boy, the Senator thought hopelessly. Couldn’t he see that——

  “You’re too young. You don’t understand what he died for—what his comrades died for,” Hobson said, his plump face very earnest.

  “Does it matter?” the boy asked very quietly. “They—died.”

  “They died for something very real,” Hobson plowed on. “If they could——”

  “For God’s sake, come on,” Kennicott snapped, grasping Hobson’s arm. “Leave him alone. Can’t you see——”

  “All right,” the boy said suddenly. “Maybe you’re right. But—let me tell you a little story.” He came closer, his eyes dark and tortured. “About a fellow who went over to France in ’17. Just an ordinary fellow, I guess—who was scared stiff when the shells started bursting around, and the machine-guns were making their racket in the dark. But he was like the rest of the fellows. He didn’t dare show how much he was afraid. A sniper got him in ’18.”

  The Senator was uncomfortable and showed it, but to his disgust he saw that Hobson was preparing to answer the boy.

  “Wait—let me finish. A sniper got him, I said, and that was fine. He didn’t hear the bullets screaming over the trench, or the groaning of dying men; all the horrors were gone, and he was resting, forgetting. The darkness was kind . . . and then one day he awoke.”

  “Eh?” That was Hobson, frankly staring.

  “I say he woke up. Glory woke him up—splendor and a stone monument that was very heavy. Bitter glory and squalid splendor,” the boy went on fiercely. “They tortured and shamed him. You see, he was awake now, and he wanted—God!—how he wanted to forget!”

  There were tears in the tortured eyes, and the boy brushed them away roughly with his sleeve. Then, catching his breath in a little gasp, he turned suddenly and began to walk quickly away.

  For a heartbeat the Senator stood silent, unmoving, staring at that slim, khaki figure receding into the gloom. “Wait,” he called.

  “Let him go,” Hobson said, an angry undercurrent in his voice. “You can’t——”

  But Kennicott was remembering that white, drawn face, those brooding eyes from which all the youthfulness had been drained. “No—I’ve got to——” he said in an inarticulate aside to Hobson and took a few hasty steps forward. He saw the pale blur that was the boy’s face turned toward him briefly, and the slender figure increased its pace. Ignoring Hobson’s remonstrances, the Senator began to hurry after the boy.

  KENNICOTT had to exert himself to overtake his quarry, and was glad that his muscles were still firm and elastic. He saw the boy turn hastily down a side path, and broke into a run. For a hundred feet or so the path was very dark, and then it broadened out into a large clearing. At its edge Kennicott swept a searching glance around, and jerked abruptly to a halt. His jaw dropped.

  A moment later Hobson pounded up, wheezing a little. He paused, scrutinizing Kennicott’s face. “What’s the matter?” he asked quickly.

  The Senato
r did not answer, and Hobson repeated his question. Then Kennicott turned a startled, almost frightened face to his companion. “Did—did you see that?” he asked unsteadily.

  “What?” Hobson glanced around. “The boy? He’s gone.”

  “He’s—yes, he’s gone. Hobson, I—I saw——” He brushed a hand across his eyes. “Hobson—can a man vanish?”

  “What?” Hobson stared, his mouth open. “A—a man——”

  “But I saw it!” the Senator said earnestly, as though pleading for belief. “That boy—wasn’t——” He pointed toward a great white block in the center of the clearing. “It was right there—I—I saw——” He could not finish.

  ‘What are you talking about?” Hobson’s voice was purposely crisp and peremptory. “You’re all unnerved. Come on—the boy’s gone. We can’t stay here.”

  “You go on,” Kennicott said suddenly. “I’m going to—stay here for a while.” Hobson hesitated. Then, making up his mind, he drew a paper from his pocket, held it out. “Here’s the bill, then. I’ll phone you tomorrow.”

  Kennicott made no move. He said dully, “The bill. No, no, I can’t——”

  “Look here,” Hobson said furiously. “You’re not going to act like a damned fool, are you? What the devil’s the matter?”

  The Senator turned to him a face of white marble and said nothing.

  Hobson hesitated, and then his rage pushed aside his diplomacy, his caution.

  “Because—by Heaven, I can break you,” he snarled. “You’re not President yet! I can ruin your career, and you know it.”

  “I know it,” the Senator said quietly. “But that bill won’t pass while I’m in the Senate.” He turned his back on Hobson and stood silently gazing at the gaunt white mausoleum in the clearing. He had spoken patriotically and at length there not six hours before.

  It was the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

  THE SALEM HORROR

  A ghastly horror from the witchcraft days of three centuries ago reared its dreadful form in the Witch Room of that old house in Derby Street