Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  I stared at him.

  “He hinted as much to me.” Albertson shook his head.

  “The whole thing’s impossible, of course.”

  “That Gaunt might have called up a fire-elemental, and that it might have reanimated his corpse?” My voice wasn’t quite as steady as I had expected.

  Diana was suddenly standing on the threshold. Her face, I noticed, was white.

  “That was Dad, you know. It wasn’t a trick.”

  “Diana,” I said, “do you think it’s safe for you to stay here? I’d feel better if you were back in the city.”

  Her lips tightened. “I’m going to stay.”

  “Suppose I stay here,” I suggested. “I have my gun. And I can—take care of any emergency that might come up. I don’t pretend to know what’s happening here, but I do know it isn’t kindergarten stuff. I wish you’d go back.”

  Her eyes dwelt on me.

  “You saw—him—at close quarters, didn’t you, Duke? It was Dad—”

  “Listen,” I said, and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Don’t get any screwy ideas. I saw something—okay. I don’t know what it was. But I intend to find out. Meanwhile, I’d feel safer if I knew you were out of danger.”

  “Danger. You feel that? But Dad wouldn’t hurt me—”

  Involuntarily I glanced at the book which Albertson had left open on a table. Diana bent to scan it, and turned a shocked white face to me.

  “You’re hinting something, Duke. That Dad isn’t—”

  “I’m not hinting anything,” I said half angrily. “I’m simply implying that maybe it wasn’t your father we just saw.”

  “I’ve never believed in ghosts—or anything going on after death,” she whispered. “But we don’t know, do we?”

  “Ghosts,” I said, “are one thing. A hunk of ectoplasm—maybe. But a fire-elemental is another.” I thumbed through the book Albertson had found. “Listen to this rot: ‘All things sprang from the Mystic Four: earth, air, fire, and water. And these four combine in mankind, who partakes of the attributes of each. He is clay; he is water; breath is his life; fire the center of his being. But these great forces have their own children. Of the sea are undines; sprites dwell in the air about us, and there are dwellers in earth. Greatest of all are the spirits of fire. Man was shaped from the Mystic Four, and the life-force of them. That power, that life-force, brought forth from its womb beings without souls, eternal beings, the elementals. In Egypt they have known them. They were known in Stonehenge. The Druid fires masked a mighty secret. They are’—” I broke off, grinning wryly.

  “It isn’t even fake spiritualism.”

  “It may be something worse,” Diana said slowly.

  CHAPTER III

  Incredible Fire

  I felt a gust of anger. “Magic!” I growled. Simultaneously I heard Albertson’s gasp.

  I followed the direction of his gaze. There was something at the window. Only a glimpse I had, of a flaming shapeless thing, and then Albertson brushed me aside and headed for the door.

  Still the—the thing hovered outside the window as though it watched us—malignantly!

  Then I was racing after Albertson. Diana, I realized was at my heels. I said:

  “Go back!” but she only shook her head mutely. There was no time for more.

  We were outside the house, in darkness. Pale yellow shafts slanted out through the windows. Of the Mallorys, father and son, there was no trace. Albertson’s figure loomed up in the dark; I caromed into him, and heard something thud and roll away on the grass.

  “My flashlight!” he said—

  “I’ve got something better,” I snapped, and felt the coolness of my automatic against my palm. Briefly I stood motionless, orienting myself to the darkness.

  Diana pressed close to me.

  “Do you smell that, Duke? Something burning—”

  Yes—I smelled it. Simultaneously I saw a little flare of flame spring into view in the distance. A tiny grass-fire which elongated and ran along like a serpent through the gloom. I found myself thinking: green grass doesn’t burn.

  Then I saw the—the thing. It was fire. It was a core of pure white flame, twisting in midair, unsupported. It seemed to float away from us, dancing as though in mockery, like some monstrous, diabolic Will-o’-the-Wisp.

  Behind it, like a track—like a flaming spoor—the serpent of flame ran!

  Footprints of fire!

  I was plunging in pursuit of the thing, my automatic lifting. I fired. But, if I struck anything tangible, there was no apparent result.

  “Missed?” That was Albertson’s voice.

  “I don’t miss—” I caught myself, glancing at the shadow of Diana, beside me.

  “Maybe,” I said shortly, and ran on.

  Nightmare race through blackness, guided by that floating core of flame! We followed the fire-snake as it writhed through the grass—grass that should not burn, at this season. A breath of dry, baking heat gusted back at us. It was strangely dream-like, this pursuit, with the rhythmic pounding of our feet, the hoarse gasping of our breaths, the dancing, silent core of fire that swayed mockingly before us.

  Albertson found time to say:

  “That isn’t—Gaunt—anyway.”

  The blood was pounding in my temples. My eyes hurt with the strain of following that incredible track. Despite myself, I felt a subtle horror of overtaking the thing that fled.

  Why did it flee? To find—sanctuary?

  Then the serpent-track at our feet died and was gone. Only the fire-shape hung motionless in the dark.

  Again I fired. And, as before, there was no result.

  AND yet there was. Instantly the glowing, strange core of flame vanished. In its place stood—Simon Gaunt!

  Expressionless, terrible, he stood there, twenty feet away, and my gun barked and jolted against my hand. He did not move. His face, his eyes, his whole body, glowed as though lighted from within, like a vessel for some incredible Dweller that flamed within his flesh!

  The crackling snarl of my automatic died. There was only silence, and that oppressive heat.

  I heard a choked little cry from Diana. She sprang forward, racing toward the horror that stood under the oaks.

  I was at her heels, but too late. Red flame gushed out. She screamed, and I caught her as she fell back, moaning. When I looked again, Simon Gaunt was gone.

  I lifted Diana in my arms.

  “I’m going back to the house.”

  “Yeah.” Albertson lit a match, but there was nothing to see—only a trail of burned, cindery grass. “I—I guess we might as well.” He looked up.

  Diana had fainted. Back on the porch, I laid her on a couch and examined her. Her face was slightly burned.

  The radio still was blaring, and suddenly the porch was filled with Albertson’s crowd, staring owlishly, flushed with liquor. Someone asked thickly:

  “What’s up?”

  I told them. I told them just what “had happened, because I disliked them violently and wanted to wipe the fatuous grins from their faces. I’d have liked nothing better than to scare them sober.

  But it didn’t work. A girl with a glass in her hand reeled toward Albertson.

  “Swell gag, Don,” she mouthed. “Hallowe’en stuff. Let’s make that sacrifice for old Simon now, eh?”

  I might have known it. They were too thoroughly, professionally plastered to notice an earthquake. I glared at Albertson.

  “See if you can find some ointment in the bathroom,” I snapped, and he vanished through the door with the others. The radio blared louder. I heard the scuffle of dancing feet. Then I saw Steve Mallory lined against the outside dark.

  “I heard shots—” he said. “Diana! What happened?”

  “She’s all right,” I said. “And if it’s a fair question, just where the devil have you been?”

  “Never mind that,” he said impatiently. “I didn’t find anything.”

  Albertson returned, with a jar of ointment, and Mal
lory took it from him, applying it to her face.

  I told him what had happened. For his part, he said that he and his father had been—searching. That was all. They hadn’t found anything.

  “Yeah,” I said again, and took out my automatic, checking it carefully. Albertson met my eyes.

  “Blanks?” he asked softly.

  “No. I had that idea, too. But my gun was loaded. And—blast it, man, I’m not that bad a shot!”

  “According to Gaunt’s own books, an elemental can leave the body it possesses at any time,” Albertson said. “But it always returns.”

  “I doubt it,” I remarked rudely, and slid a fresh clip into the automatic, slipping the weapon back into my pocket.

  “I think it’s time we stopped sticking our necks out. Or, rather, Diana’s neck. Speaking for myself, I move we all get out of here, and get out pronto!”

  “Come, come, Duke!” Aaron Mallory stood at the door, looking more like the skeleton of a vulture than ever. “We must be realists. I am no believer in the supernatural.”

  I felt a gust of annoyance. “You can believe in little red devils, for all I care,” I said. “I’m thinking about Diana. This place is dangerous. Though I notice you didn’t run any risks.”

  He tut-tutted me blandly.

  “I see Diana is not badly burned. That’s well.”

  ALBERTSON unexpectedly took my side.

  “I think Duke’s right. This isn’t safe—for Diana, anyway. We’d better go. I found my flashlight—so I’ll look around a bit, first. Coming, Mallory?”

  “I’m staying with Diana,” I said quietly. “With my gun loaded.” Aaron Mallory grunted.

  “We’ll look around. If that thing we saw was tangible, it couldn’t have vanished without leaving traces. If it wasn’t—I don’t believe in it.”

  Steve shrugged, muttered something, and followed the others out. I heard them go slowly off into the night.

  The darkness closed in, almost tangibly, around the porch. Presently I realized that Diana’s eyes were open.

  “Hello, Duke,” she said, smiling wanly. “I—I guess I ran right into trouble.”

  “How do you feel? Your face—”

  “It hurts. Duke! It isn’t—scarred—”

  “Of course not,” I reassured her. “Minor burns. Steve smeared salve on ’em.”

  “What happened?”

  I told her.

  “Steve’s out there?” she asked.

  “Yeah. With the others.”

  “I’m going to him,” she said, rising.

  “You’re safer here. He’ll be back.”

  “Duke,” she whispered, looking at me, “don’t you understand? I love him.”

  I looked at her in silence. After a moment I said:

  “Yeah,” and opened the porch door. “Come along, then.” My eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness. “See anyone?”

  “Not from here. Let’s go out on the pier. We can see from there.”

  I followed her out on the rickety structure. It wasn’t dangerous; the water was only waist deep at the But the boards creaked perilously under our feet.

  We had nearly reached the end when a flare of light came from behind us. I heard a yell, in Steve’s voice. Simultaneously Diana cried out, whirled, and raced back along the pier. I followed, guided by an intermittent red flame. It seemed centuries before I saw a knot of struggling figures—Steve and Albertson, grappling with a being that was human, but which glowed like fire. Aaron Mallory was crumpled on the grass near by.

  Flame gushed out, and Albertson fell back, snarling. Then he hurled himself again upon that silent, ferociously battling thing with the glowing face of Simon Gaunt.

  I pushed Diana out of the way. The automatic jolted in my hand. Simon Gaunt’s figure sprang up, twisting free of his assailants.

  He stood for a moment, a black hole in his forehead. Then he crashed down . . .

  And the white light of Albertson’s flashlight told us the truth.

  I stripped the mask from the dead face—the death mask of Simon Gaunt. The man who lay there had the brown, leathery face of a countryman. The blue eyes still were vaguely luminous.

  “Who is he?” Diana whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I said. And the same answer came from the others.

  Albertson was rubbing his hands on his coat. “Ouch!” he said. “He must have had some acid smeared on his clothes. No wonder he burned my fingers!”

  Steve was holding Diana close.

  “It’s all right, dear,” he said. “We saw that—that glowing thing, and followed it. Then it seemed to turn into your father, and I tackled it. Albertson and Dad helped me.” He turned to Aaron Mallory, who was rising, rubbing his head. “All right?”

  “Sure. Just a bump on the head. Let’s have a look at this chap!” Aaron bent, and fumbled at the dead man’s eyes. He held up a little shell of glass. “Covered his eyes—see? They were treated with luminous paint, too, like the mask and his clothes.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Riddle of Fire

  I PICKED up a cloak from the ground. On one side it was jet black; on the other, a twisting spiral had been drawn with luminous paint.

  “And this explains a lot more. Wearing this, in the dark, he couldn’t be seen, except as a shining flame. And the track in the grass—it’s my guess he laid a trail of kerosene in advance, and touched it off as he ran.”

  Two other things we found—a small portable flame-thrower, crudely made, but effective enough. The other thing was a door in a tree.

  The oak’s great bole was hollow. A slab had been cut out of it and roughly wired so that it could be swung open easily. The edges of the wood were still raw and new, with sawdust clinging to them. This, obviously, was how the masquerader had been able to disappear so magically.

  Fire flickered up suddenly from the windows of the lodge.

  Steve Mallory whirled.

  “What the devil—” he snapped. “More of this?” We all knew what he meant.

  We forgot about the body on the ground. All of us headed for the house, Mallory in the lead. His big figure loomed ahead of me as he burst into the porch and raced into the big room.

  I saw him stop to stare. Then we were all inside the door, watching the group gathered around the metal altar against the wall.

  A girl turned to face us—the one who had suggested that we perform the ritual ordered by Gaunt’s will. In her hand she held the feathery body of a black cock; she waved it at us. She was drunker than the others.

  One of the men was reading a ritual, in stumbling Latin.

  The concavity on the altar was filled with glowing red coals that flared up now and then.

  “It’s okay,” the girl called. “We’re just—just doing what old Simon wanted.”

  Diana said, in a tight voice:

  “Stop them, Steve.”

  He moved forward, his eyes blazing—and two men lunged toward him, seized his arms.

  “Gotta—finish it, now,” one of them mouthed.

  Before Steve could break free, the girl with the dead fowl had dropped it on the coals. The smell of singed feathers arose. She picked up a bowl, filled with dry herbs, and poured the Stuff on the altar.

  Instantly a fierce, raging flame rushed up, a blazing column that licked at the wall behind the altar. It drew our eyes . . .

  Steve tore free from the men who held him. He moved toward the altar—and paused, beside it, staring up at the wall as that fierce flame died down. I followed his gaze, and my heart jumped with excitement.

  On the wall-paper—writing was appearing!

  THE first thing we saw was the name, “Simon Gaunt.” And then, brought out by the heat, brownish lines of script grew to visibility above it.

  The message said, quite simply:

  “I have been poisoned. Before I came to the lodge, he gave me this new brand of meat paste and insisted that I try it. Now I am dying, and I know my murderer will come here to make certain of my death
, and that I have left no message. I think he will also want the necklace of rubies I have just bought for Diana’s birthday, but I have hidden these in the artesian well under the pump, suspended by a long string.

  “In my will, I have asked Diana to perform a certain ritual yearly. Knowing this, I have moved the altar against the wall, where, during the ritual, the heat of the fire will make this writing visible. I am being killed because my murderer is in need of money; I recently discovered that he has been stealing from the firm for several years, losing every cent and more in gambling debts.

  “I waited for him to confess—I would have helped him then—but I waited too long. I am being murdered so that Duke can marry Diana and inherit my fortune.

  “Simon Gaunt.”

  “Duke!” Diana turned slowly. “No!”

  I was at the door, and the automatic was at my hand, covering them all, sobering even Albertson’s drunken crowd.

  “Please don’t move,” I said gently. “As I said before, I seldom miss.”

  Her eyes were wide. “But you couldn’t have—poisoned Dad—”

  “I poisoned him, Diana. I knew he’d found out about the money and the gambling. So I gave him the poisoned meat paste, and then drove up here to make certain. I searched the house, but I didn’t find the message, or the rubies. It was clever of Simon Gaunt to write with invisible ink—milk or lemon juice, I suppose.”

  “You dirty—” Steve began.

  “Shut up!” I nosed the gun toward him. “You talk too much. You talked too much to Diana—I thought I had that sewed up, and then you came back and made her break her engagement to me.”