Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 12]

by The Vampires

  The great stallion sped like the wind over secret paths known only to the Bandar and the Phantom, for this was the forbidden land of the pygmy poison people. When he reached the Western jungle, inhabited by the Wambesi and Llongo, he avoided the traveled roads and villages, remaining deep in the woods. He rode for a day and a night and another day, and stopped only to water, feed, and rest his animals, taking quick catnaps for himself during these times. A few jungle folk saw him from a distance only as a blur, so fast did Hero run. And they heard the pounding of the mighty hoofs like summer thunder. This was a tale to tell their children and grandchildren, for the Phantom was rarely seen even by those jungle folk who hailed him as the Keeper of the Peace.

  At the edge of the jungle, he reached a small corral hidden behind high thorn bushes. A boy wearing shorts and sneakers was waiting. He took charge of Hero, removing his bridle and saddle, and brushed the big stallion with loving hands. The boy was Tora. He lived nearby with his father, a farmer who also tended the Phantom’s homing pigeons and sometimes the Phantom’s fierce falcon, Fraka. Pigeons and falcon were sometimes used to carry messages to the Deep Woods.

  From a chest in the shed, the Phantom took clothes— trousers, topcoat, scarf, hat, sunglasses—all of which effectively concealed his skintight costume. Then bidding Tora and Hero farewell, he walked with Devil along the path that led to the city of Mawitaan.

  There are times, it is said, when the Phantom leaves the jungle and enters the town as an ordinary man. This was one of those times.

  Before the big plane took off from the Mawitaan airport, there was a bit of a commotion at the bottom of the stairs. The big man wearing sunglasses was standing there with his dog, or whatever it was, on a leash. The pretty red-haired stewardess was trying to convince the big man that the animal could not go on the plane with him, even if he had bought an extra seat. She called the airline agent, a dapper fellow in a spruce blue uniform. He smiled patronizingly and explained it was against regulations. The big man asked to see the regulations. The agent took out the rule book and showed it to him in black and white— no dogs were permitted in the passenger section.

  “He’s not a dog. He’s a wolf,” said the big man. The agent and the pretty stewardesses (several of them had now gathered at the stairs) looked at the large animal in alarm. His white teeth were enormous and his eyes were pale blue. The agent backed off a step or two, and pointed out another regulation: no wild animals permitted aboard.

  “He’s not wild. He’s tame and trained,” said the big man patiently. “Do you have a rule about a tame wolf?”

  “Not exactly. But sir, the rule covers all pets.”

  “He is not a pet. He is a working animal. He works for me.”

  “But sir,” said the agent.

  Now, after a brief silence, the big man seemed to grow a foot taller, and his pleasant voice became cold.

  “I cannot trust this wolf to your freight section. The air pressure and temperature are not adjusted properly. At thirty-thousand feet, he would be permanently injured or killed. He is well behaved and will bother no one. He will board with me.”

  The stewardess looked at the agent, who was sweating and red-faced. They waited to hear him say no. But he didn’t. He stared at the dark sunglasses as though hypnotized.

  “I cannot be responsible,” he stammered.

  “The responsibility is mine,” said the big man. And he went up the stairs with the animal on the leash. The agent breathed deeply.

  “You let him do it?” said the red-haired stewardess, amazed.

  He scowled and turned away.

  “Get ready to take off,” he snapped, and went back to the office.

  “How about that?” said the redhead.

  “There are some men you don’t say no to. That’s one of them.”

  The girls laughed. The brunette looked up at the open cabin door.

  “I wish I was going on this flight. I wonder who he is.”

  “Passenger list says ‘Mr. Walker and friend,’” said the redhead. “How about that friend?”

  “Mr. Walker. We’ll find out more about him on the flight,” said the blonde.

  When the plane took off, the two girls almost stepped on each other trying to get to him first. He sat wearing the hat and coat.

  “Can we take your hat and coat?” said the blonde.

  “No, thank you,” said Mr. Walker.

  “You want to wear it all night?” said the redhead, giggling.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Walker.

  The big wolf, sitting next to him, opened his mouth to yawn. The long white fangs gleamed. The girls quickly went about their business.

  “What is he? Some kind of kook?” said the redhead.

  “He’s different,” sighed the blonde.

  When dinner was being served, the girls approached him cautiously.

  “We’ve chicken for dinner. Eh, maybe we can find him a hamburger,” said the blonde. Sitting on the seat, the wolf was as tall as a man. All the passengers had taken turns walking by to see him, and they talked about him lor hours. A wolf!

  “He’s been fed,” said the big man.

  “I’ll bet he’d love a raw hamburger,” said the blonde.

  “In a pinch, yes. He prefers to kill his own meat.”

  The girls retreated hastily and passed the word onto the fascinated passengers and crew. He prefers to kill his own meat!

  When the big man and his “friend” left the plane at Rome after the long flight, the girls had learned nothing more about him. Only his name, Mr. Walker, which sounded ordinary enough. They might have found it less ordinary if they knew what it stood for—the Ghost Who Walks.

  He left Rome by rail, and changed trains three times before reaching the tiny station at Koqania. He was the only passenger to get off the train. It was twilight and the stone station was locked. The platform and area about the building were deserted and unlit. Neither mailbags nor parcels were left by the train. He had barely descended the steps with Devil when the train chugged off as though anxious to get away. The lone conductor had looked at him in surprise when he had seen his ticket marked for Koqania. Now as the single dusty old coach car passed, the conductor peered at him from a window, still looking surprised. Obviously, traffic for Koqania was sparse.

  He looked around. The small town was a few hundred yards away. Pale light glimmered through cracks in a few windows. The street was not completely deserted. A carriage and horse, with a driver wearing a top hat, stood a block away. The Phantom walked to him with Devil on his leash. The driver was an elderly man with big gray mustaches. He looked with some amazement at the Phantom.

  “I always park down here to watch the train. Three times a week it goes by. The only excitement in town,” he said, chuckling. “But its been a long time since anybody got off.”

  “Is there a taxi here?”

  “I’m the taxi.”

  “Are you available?”

  The old man snorted. “I haven’t had any business for a month. Used to have plenty. But who wants a taxi here these days?”

  The Phantom climbed into the carriage.

  “Where to, sir? The inn?” said the old man, suddenly professional. He chuckled. “It’s not far. You could walk.” “Can you take me to the castle?”

  The old man turned in his seat and looked at the Phantom.

  “The castle?” he said, his eyes wide.

  “Is there more than one?”

  “You mean—the castle ruins?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure you want to go there.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s almost dark. That’s it up there.” He pointed ahead. A mile or more away, the broken battlements of the castle loomed in the dusk.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Mister, I’ll take you there, but I want to get home by dark. It’ll be close.”

  “Right. Get going.”

  The carriage rattled over the old cobblestones as they raced through the to
wn as fast as the old mare could pull them. A few people were on the sidewalks, entering their houses. They looked curiously at the carriage. He noticed that most of the windows were already covered with shutters and the remainder were being shut as he rolled by.

  They were outside the town in a few minutes, rolling along a rough dirt road. The carriage stopped by an open field a quarter of a mile from the base of the peak. The ruins could be seen vaguely in the gathering darkness.

  “This is as far as I go,” said the old man.

  The Phantom jumped out of the carriage with Devil and offered him money.

  “That money’s no good here.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to get your Koqania money.” “Pay me tomorrow. I’m easy'to find,” said the driver, anxious to be off.

  “You don’t want to wait here until I come back?”

  “Come back? You going up there?” said the old man, nppalled.

  “Yes.”

  “Mister, you’re a stranger. Don’t you know about this place?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “You can’t go up there night or day, especially night. You can’t stay out here on this road. You better come back with me.”

  As he spoke, the driver was wheeling horse and carriage about to return to town. In his hurry, his carriage almost rolled into a ditch.

  “It’s a quiet lovely night. Why can’t I be there? Or go there?”

  “Because she is there. And they are there. And here.”

  “Who?”

  “The vampires, and the witch.” He almost hissed the words softly, as though afraid someone else might hear.

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Not me.”

  “Who has?”

  “Plenty have. Look, mister, it’s almost dark. I can’t sit out here arguing with you. I warned you.” He raised his long whip and lashed the mare. The old horse took off with a start. The Phantom watched for a moment, then walked into the field with Devil. He removed the leash, and man and wolf began to walk toward the ruins. The driver looked back as he bounced away.

  “The fool,” he said. “The crazy fool. I wonder who he was.”

  Chapter 7

  A gibbous moon, between half and full, moved in and out of heavy clouds as he walked up the slope. Devil roamed through the high grass a few yards ahead of him. As he climbed the incline which became steeper as he neared the ruins, he thought about his ancestor, the eighth Phantom. Here is where he had battled with the “blood-drinking demons” and “the gargoyles of the witch of Hanta” three centuries ago. Soon he reached a bank. Below was a deep ditch filled with water, weeds, and water plants. The old moat! Here the eighth Phantom had fought “creepy things, some with tentacles.” Boiling lead had fallen into it, perhaps leaving traces that could still be found. He walked along the bank and reached a place where tons of stone had tumbled into the moat, probably at the time of that old explosion. This provided a bridge across the moat. Now he came to broken walls and heaps of stone, the ancient battlements of the castle. From above here, the eighth Phantom had leaped into the moat with the “beauteous blonde witch” in his arms. To be in this place after reading that tale in the chronicles was like reliving a dream.

  He moved quietly among the ruins with Devil, pausing now and then to test the air for sounds, Devil testing for scents. Nothing suspicious. And nothing appeared changed from his last visit here several years before. He found the old stone staircase and climbed down to the iron door. Standing in the dark, he snapped on a small but powerful flashlight. The old lock was in place on the door as he had left it. Above the door was the faint skull mark left by an earlier Phantom visitor. It was from this door, on being opened, that a radio signal had been sent all the way to the Skull Cave. But the door was locked. Had the hidden transmitter malfunctioned, sending a false alarm? He examined the lock under the light beam. The dust on it was not evenly distributed. It had been touched, disturbed. And there were faint scratches around the keyhole. Someone had opened it with an instrument, or a skeleton key. He unlocked it, opened the door. The rusty old hinges creaked as they always had. He touched the hidden spring, turning it off, then entered the dark tunnel with Devil. His light beam was off, and he walked softly in the dark, as softly as Devil. (“The Phantom moves on cat’s feet” was an old jungle saying.)

  He was moving through a rocky cellar corridor that led to a maze of tunnels under the ruins. Here and there ceilings had caved in, but most of the ancient chambers, some large, some tiny, were intact.

  He paused at one heavy oaken door, and turning on the 40

  flashlight, peered in. This was a small cell with a barred window that let in air and light in the daytime. It opened on an airshaft. In the small chamber were a cot, table, candles. On these rare occasions when a Phantom slept in the ruins, this was the place. Why here? Of all the countless chambers, some airier and more usable, why this one? Was it for sentimental reasons? Was this the dungeon where the eighth Phantom had been imprisoned by the witch? It could be. He was suddenly certain. It must be. The heavy door had the small barred opening described in the chronicle. He could picture the blonde witch peering in, her eyes filled with “witch’s tears.” He closed the door and moved on. Devil was sniffing in the dark. He snapped on his beam. A torch made of oil-soaked reeds was stuck in a socket on the wall. It had recently been lit and some of the oil had dripped to the floor.

  Now he moved more cautiously. The corridor opened into a large chamber that he remembered. He snapped on his light. Yes, all the old paraphernalia was still there, rusted and decaying, but still recognizable. This had been an ancient torture chamber. There was a pit where fires had been built to heat pincers and other instruments red-hot. There was a rack used to stretch victims until bones were pulled from sockets. A gallows. A metal “shoe” with a screw device. And weirdest of all, the “Iron Maiden.” This was a large empty form of metal shaped like a woman wearing long skirts. It opened on hinges. The inside surface was lined with sharp spikes. The victim was placed inside, the two halves closed, and the metal spikes penetrated non-vital areas, so that the victim died slowly. And much more. The big rocky chamber was like a museum of medieval torture instruments. But this was no museum. These thing had been used—here. And some were neither rusty nor decayed. Some were clean, oiled, recently used. Something in a comer caught his eye. A big box. He turned the beam on it. It was a coffin.

  He walked to it. He did not remember its being there when he visited this place before. The coffin was not old. It was new. He opened the lid. Inside was the usual satin lining, nothing else. He touched the lining. Though these cellars were cool and damp, the lining was warm. Someone, something, had been in there and very recently. It was dark outside when the vampire roamed. He meditated for a moment. Then Devil growled.

  He snapped off his light, and dropped quickly to his knees. But there was no shot in the dark. A slight scraping sound off somewhere. Then complete silence again, the silence of the tomb. Devil must have heard a rat. He shut the lid and walked back to the iron door. Outside, he closed the lock. What was going on here? Something. He had come a long way to find out. He walked out of the ruins, across the moat, and down the slope with Devil roaming a few yards ahead as before. And if there were shadows moving among the broken walls, they might have been caused by the moonlight filtering through breaks in the clouds.

  He walked on the rough dirt road that led back to town, and passed several farmhouses set back from the road. They showed no lights. Windows and doors were boarded up or open and dark. He walked to one house and looked in through the open door which was banging in the wind. He shone his flashlight into the place. It was empty, stripped of all furniture. He noticed a big barn in the back, and rows of neat well-kept fences. It looked like a successful farm. Where had the people and animals gone? Why? Two more houses on the road were similarly deserted. In one farmhouse, atop a small hill, light shone through closed shutters. He was about to knock on that door to get answers to his questi
ons, when a horse and wagon came from a side road. A man with a lighted lantern and a rifle walked ahead of the horse. A woman holding a baby was seated on the wagon which was piled high with boxes, rolls, and furniture. As Devil ran up to the horse, the man raised his rifle.

  “Don’t shoot,” called the Phantom. He stepped out of the driveway onto the road.

  “Stay where you are,” called the man.

  “What is it, Miron?” asked the woman in a shrill, nervous voice.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m a stranger here, a visitor,” said the Phantom. “Is this the way you treat people you meet on the road, point a gun at them?”

  The man held the lantern up so that the pale beam reached the Phantom’s face. The man was not too reassured by this sight of a stranger wearing sunglasses on this dark night“Who are you?” he said, his rifle pointed at the Phantom.

  “I told you. A visitor. I came to find out why people arc so frightened here.”

  “What’s he saying, Miron?”

  “He says he’s a visitor. He wants to know why we are so frightened. Get that animal away from me.”

  Devil was sniffing near him, watching the rifle. Devil knew what a rifle was. At a word from his master, he would take man and rifle to the ground. But the word didn’t come.

  “Here, Devil.”

  “What are you doing on this road at night?” said the man.

  “I’m looking for vampires.”

  The answer caught the man by surprise. He made an odd sound, half a chuckle, half a snort.

  “What did he say, Miron?”

  “He said he’s looking for vampires.” He had trouble saying the word.

  “Don’t listen to him. It’s a trick,” shouted the woman.

  “It’s no trick. I just went into the ruins,” said the Phantom, pointing to the distant peak.