The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales

by Mack Reynolds

  What will not people devise in merry mood? They even began to disguise their faces till they did not look like human beings. On such occasions one would dress himself as a Jew, another as the Devil: they would begin by kissing each other, and end by seizing each other by the hair. God be with them! You laughed till you held your sides. They dressed themselves in Turkish and Tatar garments. All upon them glowed like a conflagration, and then they began to joke and play pranks.…

  An amusing thing happened to my grandfather’s aunt, who was at this wedding. She was wearing an ample Tatar robe, and, wine-glass in hand, was entertaining the company. The Evil One instigated one man to pour vodka over her from behind. Another, at the same moment, evidently not by accident, struck a light, and held it to her. The flame flashed up, and poor aunt, in terror, flung her dress off, before them all. Screams, laughter, jests, arose as if at a fair. In a word, the old folks could not recall so merry a wedding.

  Pidorka and Peter began to live like a gentleman and lady. There was plenty of everything and everything was fine.… But honest folk shook their heads when they marked their way of living. “From the Devil no good can come,” they unanimously agreed. “Whence, except from the tempter of orthodox people, came this wealth? Where else could he have got such a lot of gold from? Why, on the very day that he got rich, did Basavriuk vanish as if into thin air?”

  Say, if you can, that people only imagine things! A month had not passed, and no one would have recognised Peter. He sat in one spot, saying no word to any one; but continually thinking and seemingly trying to recall something. When Pidorka succeeded in getting him to speak, he appeared to forget himself, and would carry on a conversation, and even grow cheerful; but if he inadvertently glanced at the sacks, “Stop, stop! I have forgotten,” he would cry, and again plunge into reverie and strive to recall something. Sometimes when he sat still a long time in one place, it seemed to him as though it were coming, just coming back to mind, but again all would fade away. It seemed as if he was sitting in the tavern: they brought him vodka; vodka stung him; vodka was repulsive to him. Some one came along and struck him on the shoulder; but beyond that everything was veiled in darkness before him. The perspiration would stream down his face, and he would sit exhausted in the same place.

  What did not Pirdorka do? She consulted the sorceresses; and they poured out fear, and brewed stomach ache[2]—but all to no avail. And so the summer passed. Many a Cossack had mowed and reaped; many a Cossack, more enterprising than the rest, had set off upon an expedition. Flocks of ducks were already crowding the marshes, but there was not even a hint of improvement.

  It was red upon the steppes. Ricks of grain, like Cossack’s caps, dotted the fields here and there. On the highway were to be encountered waggons loaded with brushwood and logs. The ground had become more solid, and in places was touched with frost. Already had the snow begun to fall and the branches of the trees were covered with rime like rabbit-skin. Already on frosty days the robin redbreast hopped about on the snow-heaps like a foppish Polish nobleman, and picked out grains of corn; and children, with huge sticks, played hockey upon the ice; while their fathers lay quietly on the stove, issuing forth at intervals with lighted pipes in their lips, to growl, in regular fashion, at the orthodox frost, or to take the air, and thresh the grain spread out in the barn. At last the snow began to melt, and the ice slipped away: but Peter remained the same; and, the more time went on, the more morose he grew. He sat in the cottage as though nailed to the spot, with the sacks of gold at his feet. He grew averse to companionship, his hair grew long, he became terrible to look at; and still he thought of but one thing, still he tried to recall something, and got angry and ill-tempered because he could not. Often, rising wildly from his seat, he gesticulated violently and fixed his eyes on something as though desirous of catching it: his lips moving as though desirous of uttering some long-forgotten word, but remaining speechless. Fury would take possession of him: he would gnaw and bite his hands like a man half crazy, and in his vexation would tear out his hair by the handful, until, calming down, he would relapse into forgetfulness, as it were, and then would again strive to recall the past and be again seized with fury and fresh tortures. What visitation of God was this?

  Pidorka was neither dead not alive. At first it was horrible for her to remain alone with him in the cottage; but, in course of time, the poor woman grew accustomed to her sorrow. But it was impossible to recognise the Pidorka of former days. No blushes, no smiles: she was thin and worn with grief, and had wept her bright eyes away. Once some one who took pity on her advised her to go to the witch who dwelt in the Bear’s ravine, and enjoyed the reputation of being able to cure every disease in the world. She determined to try that last remedy: and finally persuaded the old woman to come to her. This was on St. John’s Eve, as it chanced. Peter lay insensible on the bench, and did not observe the newcomer. Slowly he rose, and looked about him. Suddenly he trembled in every limb, as though he were on the scaffold: his hair rose upon his head, and he laughed a laugh that filled Pidorka’s heart with fear.

  “I have remembered, remembered!” he cried, in terrible joy; and, swinging a hatchet round his head, he struck at the old woman with all his might. The hatchet penetrated the oaken door nearly four inches. The old woman disappeared; and a child of seven, covered in a white sheet, stood in the middle of the cottage.… The sheet flew off. “Ivas!” cried Pidorka, and ran to him; but the apparition became covered from head to foot with blood, and illumined the whole room with red light.…

  She ran into the passage in her terror, but, on recovering herself a little, wished to help Peter. In vain! The door had slammed to behind her, so that she could not open it. People ran up, and began to knock: they broke in the door, as though there were but one mind among them. The whole cottage was full of smoke; and just in the middle, where Peter had stood, was a heap of ashes whence smoke was still rising. They flung themselves upon the sacks: only broken potsherds lay there instead of ducats. The Cossacks stood with staring eyes and open mouths, as if rooted to the earth, not daring to move a hair, such terror did this wonder inspire in them.

  I do not remember what happened next. Pidorka made a vow to go upon a pilgrimage, collected the property left her by her father, and in a few days it was as if she had never been in the village. Whither she had gone, no one could tell. Officious old women would have despatched her to the same place whither Peter had gone; but a Cossack from Kief reported that he had seen, in a cloister, a nun withered to a mere skeleton who prayed unceasingly. Her fellow-villagers recognised her as Pidorka by the tokens—that no one heard her utter a word; and that she had come on foot, and had brought a frame for the picture of God’s mother, set with such brilliant stones that all were dazzled at the sight.

  But this was not the end, if you please. On the same day that the Evil One made away with Peter, Basavriuk appeared again; but all fled from him. They knew what sort of a being he was—none else than Satan, who had assumed human form in order to unearth treasures; and, since treasures do not yield to unclean hands, he seduced the young. That same year, all deserted their earthen huts and collected in a village; but even there there was no peace on account of that accursed Basavriuk.

  My late grandfather’s aunt said that he was particularly angry with her because she had abandoned her former tavern, and tried with all his might to revenge himself upon her. Once the village elders were assembled in the tavern, and, as the saying goes, were arranging the precedence at the table, in the middle of which was placed a small roasted lamb, shame to say. They chattered about this, that, and the other—among the rest about various marvels and strange things. Well, they saw something; it would have been nothing if only one had seen it, but all saw it, and it was this: the sheep raised his head, his goggling eyes became alive and sparkled; and the black, bristling moustache, which appeared for one instant, made a significant gesture at those present. All at once re
cognised Basavriuk’s countenance in the sheep’s head; my grandfather’s aunt thought it was on the point of asking for vodka. The worthy elders seized their hats and hastened home.

  Another time, the church elder himself, who was fond of an occasional private interview with my grandfather’s brandy-glass, had not succeeded in getting to the bottom twice, when he beheld the glass bowing very low to him. “Satan take you, let us make the sign of the cross over you!”—And the same marvel happened to his better half. She had just begun to mix the dough in a huge kneading-trough when suddenly the trough sprang up. “Stop, stop! Where are you going?” Putting its arms akimbo, with dignity, it went skipping all about the cottage—you may laugh, but it was no laughing matter to our grandfathers. And in vain did Father Athanasii go through all the village with holy water, and chase the Devil through all the streets with his brush. My late grandfather’s aunt long complained that, as soon as it was dark, some one came knocking at her door and scratching at the wall.

  Well! All appears to be quiet now in the place where our village stands; but it was not so very long ago—my father was still alive—that I remember how a good man could not pass the ruined tavern which a dishonest race had long managed for their own interest. From the smoke-blackened chimneys smoke poured out in a pillar, and rising high in the air, rolled off like a cap, scattering burning coals over the steppe; and Satan (the son of a dog should not be mentioned) sobbed so pitifully in his lair that the startled ravens rose in flocks from the neighbouring oak-wood and flew through the air with wild cries.

  [1] A dish of rice or wheat flour, with honey and raisins, which is brought to the church on the celebration of memorial masses.

  [2] “To pour out fear” refers to a practice resorted to in case of fear. When it is desired to know what caused this, melted lead or wax is poured into water, and the object whose form it assumes is the one which frightened the sick person; after this, the fear departs. Sonyashnitza is brewed for giddiness and pain in the bowels. To this end, a bit of stump is burned, thrown into a jug, and turned upside down into a bowl filled with water, which is placed on the patient’s stomach: after an incantation, he is given a spoonful of this water to drink.

  WOLFIE, by Theodore R. Cogwell

  Originally published in Beyond Fantasy Fiction, Jan. 1954.

  Peter Vincent had too much to gain—and too much to lose—to risk committing murder in any of the usual ways. He was an obvious suspect if his cousin Anthony Lan should die violently, and much as he wanted his share of Anthony’s money, he had an intelligent man’s respect for the efficiency of the metropolitan police. That’s why he sought, and after a long search found, Dr. Arsoldi.

  Dr. Arsoldi’s antecedents were mysterious and his techniques were unorthodox, but that was to be expected from a practicing warlock. Peter had rather expected a dimly lighted room cluttered with stuffed owls, crystal balls, chalked pentagrams, and the other paraphernalia commonly associated with wizardry. Instead, he found himself in a small and rather dusty office, whose sole decoration was a flyspecked Petty Girl calendar. Dr. Arsoldi himself didn’t correspond to the usual stereotype—he was a broad shouldered and muscular young man with crew-cut and horn rimmed glasses.

  “How did you find me?” he asked as he gestured Peter to a chair. There was a trace of an Iowa nasal twang to his voice.

  “The same way the others did,” said Peter. “I kept looking in the right places. When a whole series of things occur in a limited area that can’t be explained in the usual way, it’s not too difficult to fit them together into a pattern that makes sense.”

  Dr. Arsoldi took a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his tweed jacket, lit one, and inhaled deeply.

  “Things such as what?” he asked, letting the smoke trickle lazily from his nostrils.

  “The Saunders case for one,” said Peter. “The police are still trying to figure out how an elderly woman could burn to death in a locked room without even scorching the covers on her bed. Salamander, wasn’t it?”

  Dr. Arsoldi grinned. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”

  “And that Morgan Bloomfellow who had his head smashed in on the seventh green at the Hunt Hills Golf Course. There were eight witnesses to swear that there was nobody within fifty yards of him at the time. That was a poltergeist, wasn’t it?” Vincent asked.

  “Any prosecuting attorney who tried to establish that it was would be hauled away and locked up.”

  “Admitted,” said Peter. “That’s why I spent so much time and money tracking you down. I’ve uncovered eighteen cases in the last two years that look like your work, and in each case there was somebody who gained a great deal by the deaths. I came here to make you a business proposition.”

  “Sorry,” said Dr. Arsoldi. “I’ve suspended operations. It got too dangerous.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Peter. “There isn’t a way in the world the law could touch you.”

  “It’s not the law I’m afraid of.” Dr. Arsoldi hesitated. “I have a—I suppose you could call him a colleague. When we first started working together, I had to sign a contract. There’s a clause in it that’s been bothering me lately. Frankly, I’ve got my wind up and I’m getting out before it’s too late.”

  “Perhaps I can persuade you to reconsider,” said Peter. He reached in his briefcase and took out a packet of crisp new hundred dollar bills. “There’s three thousand here,” he said as he tossed it on the desk. “It’s all I can lay my hands on now, but if we can come to an agreement, there’ll be lots more.”

  Dr. Arsoldi stared at the bills and licked his lips as if they had suddenly become dry.

  “How much more?”

  “Fifty thousand easy. Maybe sixty. I’ve seen the will.”

  Dr. Arsoldi reached out to touch the money and then jerked his hand back as if it was red hot.

  “I’d like to,” he said, “but I’m just plain scared. Last time there was almost a slip-up. I don’t ever want to go through that again. Sorry.” Reluctantly, he pushed the money back across the desk.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” said Peter. “I’ve got a plan that’s foolproof.”

  “So was the last one,” said Dr. Arsoldi morosely, “and look what almost happened.”

  “What?”

  “Garlic! My colleague and I made it possible for our client to temporarily metamorph into a vampire bat. It looked extremely simple. The finding would be ’death due to chronic pernicious anemia,’ and she would inherit. And what happened? Her husband had to work late, so on his way home he stopped off at a little Italian restaurant and filled up on spaghetti and garlic bread. She was barely able to go through with it. If she had been a woman of less determination, I wouldn’t be here now.” He gave a little shudder. “As it was, she was laid up for a week afterward. The papers said she was prostrate with grief, but actually she was suffering from severe systemic poisoning. You have no idea what garlic can do to a vampire’s digestive tract.”

  Peter looked puzzled. “It would seem to me that once you had supplied the means, your responsibility ended. Suppose she hadn’t gone through with it… I don’t see how that would have affected you.”

  Dr. Arsoldi coughed nervously. “My colleague would have been upset. You see, my powers have been—well, conditionally delegated to me. He is a non-human being—not a supernatural one, mind you—I’ll admit that I haven’t yet explained to my own satisfaction just where he comes from, but it’s obviously another dimension or a different vibrational level, or something like that. For some obscure reason, he has a special fondness for murderers who aren’t caught, so we have an agreement between us—I provide the potential killers, and he provides the means for them to carry out their desires.”

  “I still don’t see what you have to be upset about.”

  “The clause in t
he agreement I mentioned says that whenever I make one of these arrangements, I have to stand surety for its successful completion. If it doesn’t come off, I’m really in hot water. I didn’t realize the danger I was in until my last arrangement almost fell through…

  “Look,” he said, struck by a sudden thought, “for a moderate fee—say, three thousand—I could arrange for you to get in touch with him yourself. That way, any arrangement that was made would be between the two of you, and I wouldn’t be involved.”

  “No, thanks,” said Peter. “I’m familiar with what eventually happens to people who make pacts with the Devil. I prefer to work through a middleman. That’s why I came to you.”

  “He’s not a devil,” said Dr. Arsoldi impatiently. “This is the Twentieth Century. There’s no need to postulate the supernatural every time something comes up that’s outside the realm of our immediate experience. If you simply assume that he comes from a world with a science far in advance of ours, it makes for a much more acceptable explanation.”

  “Wherever he comes from, I want no personal dealings with him,” said Peter decisively. He reached down and picked up the bundle of bills. “Sorry we couldn’t reach an agreement.”

  “So am I,” said Dr. Arsoldi, watching the money disappear with hungry eyes. “But much as I love money, I love living more.”

  * * * *

  After a sleepless night and a restless morning, the obvious solution suddenly popped into Peter’s mind. He rushed downtown to see Dr. Arsoldi.

  “I’ve got it,” he said triumphantly.

  “Got what?” asked Dr. Arsoldi.

  “The perfect safeguard. All you have to do is arrange matters so I couldn’t back out if I wanted to! Set some sort of a penalty so severe that I no longer have any choice in the matter.”