It was the weirdest proposition I had ever encountered, but its bizarre nature appealed to me.
When I learned what his plans were in the event the story was published, however, I at first refused to write it. But he insisted that his plans were predetermined in any case. The publication of my story would change the time element only, and that not appreciably.
He pleaded with me; he begged me, and finally I agreed.
I imposed the following conditions: the story must be short and I would have to be granted complete freedom to write what I wished, so long as I did not change his name nor alter any of the essential facts about him. I told him that I would not flatter him by physical description or otherwise, and also I made him write out and sign a note which granted me permission to use him in a story.
He seemed quite satisfied with the terms. I told him that I would write him if and when the story was published. If he did not hear from me in a year, he was to assume that I had been unable to market the piece.
Here are a few facts concerning him which he said he would like to have included in the story. He spent most of his life plastering flowery wallpaper on rooms in the Boston area. He never married. Once he was in love with a girl named Noraline who married a Boston carpenter and later moved to Salt Lake City. He relished swordfish, mushrooms, quince jelly and cornbread (not in combination). He hated milk, cabbage and soft white baker’s bread. Once he had caught a baseball fouled off the bat of Lefty Grove. He had never been arrested.
This is the story. As I write it, I have no idea whether or not it will be published. If it is, I will immediately get in touch with Henry Standish Massington. And here is what will happen.
A few hours or days before or after you read this, or possibly even as you are reading it, Henry Standish Massington—having read it—will take a cheap room in some obscure tenement in Boston, carefully destroy all evidence which might establish his identity and then, consoled by the thought that his name may possibly endure, he will sit down in a chair and calmly fire a bullet into his brain.
THE HUNT
AS HE ENTERED the cold dimly-lighted waiting room of the railroad station at Newbridge, Mr. Oricto decided it was the most desolate place in the world. Everything depressed him: the harsh overhead lights, the cold stone floor, the blackened uncomfortable benches.
Except for himself, the station appeared to be deserted. Frowning, he set his bag on the floor and sat down. He was late and his train was late. He would have to make the best of an hour’s delay. It was a dismal prospect.
Small of frame, nervous and middle-aged, he experienced a disquieting sensation of isolation, of vulnerability, as he glanced around the big barren room. Ordinarily his rather large ears and pendulous cheeks gave him a comical appearance, but now he looked merely pathetic.
He was aware of an inexplicable feeling of apprehension. He could not account for it. Newbridge was a reasonably large town; there must be people moving about in the station area.
But it was quite late and— Suddenly he froze. Someone standing in the shadows at the far end of the room was watching him. This person was leaning against the back of one of the benches, head on arms, and he appeared to be examining Mr. Oricto with curious intensity.
Mr. Oricto’s heart began pounding between his frail ribs. He stared back fearfully, repelled yet fascinated.
Although his eyes started to water, he was unable to withdraw his gaze. As he watched, the object of his unwilling scrutiny moved along the bench and drifted into the light.
For some reason which he dared not analyze, Mr. Oricto was seized with near panic. To a casual observer there might have been little in the other’s appearance to warrant such a reaction. The man was neatly groomed. He was even smaller in frame than Mr. Oricto. A disinterested party would have concluded there was nothing at all remarkable or noteworthy about him. He might even be called nondescript.
But Mr. Oricto found him appalling. The stranger’s questing eyes, his look of lean muscularity and his restless, head-lifting mannerism were alarming in themselves. His quick, concentrated interest in Mr. Oricto was scarcely short of terrifying.
Without thinking, without even waiting to weigh the result of his action, Mr. Oricto grabbed his bag and hustled toward the platform door. He almost, but not quite, ran.
Hurrying to the very end of the platform, he set down his bag and looked back. He saw no one.
His heart gradually slowed in its beat. He expelled a long shaken sigh. How timid and jittery he had suddenly become! He really must get a grip on himself. He had lost sleep lately; his nerves must be a bit frayed. The stranger had probably wanted to strike up a conversation, nothing more.
But while he reasoned with himself, some secret part of him remained chilled and frightened. He could not bring himself to leave the far end of the platform.
A few drops of rain struck his face. Staring around, he saw that there was no one in sight in any direction. The station might as well have been located in the middle of a wilderness. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he still had forty minutes to wait.
Rain came down harder, drumming against the wooden walk boards. A skimpy length of roof covered that portion of the platform adjacent to the waiting room, but it ended yards from the place where Mr. Oricto was standing.
As the rain increased, he began inching back toward this roof. He was almost under its sheltering edge when he saw the stranger standing just outside the waiting room doors. Mr. Oricto had not seen him come out; he had not noticed the doors swing open. But there he was, nevertheless.
Mr. Oricto stopped instantly, stricken with renewed trepidation. The lean stranger made no move toward him, but Mr. Oricto was convinced that he was being subjected to a sly and inimical scrutiny.
In spite of cold sheets of rain, flung by a rising wind, he hurried once again to the far end of the station platform.
The rain came down in torrents, soaking through his clothes, running down his face in rivulets. He felt sure that the stranger, standing dry under the platform roof, was vastly entertained by his predicament. Once he thought he heard a soft chuckle, but perhaps it was only the wind.
He could not reason with himself. His unwelcome platform companion had not actually made a single overt and hostile move or comment, yet his mere presence imbued Mr. Oricto with marrow-deep dread. The bone-chilling fear could not be analyzed away; it seemed tangible, a pregnant menace that filled the station platform like a black pall.
At intervals the rain slackened. In these brief periods of respite, Mr. Oricto shook his soaked hat, mopped the water from his face and generally attempted to regain some small measure of dignity.
In one of these intervals, as he drew his handkerchief from his face, he was horrified to observe that the stranger had left his post near the waiting room doors and advanced halfway down the platform toward him.
He stood petrified with fear. The stranger inched forward, moving his feet very slowly, very deliberately. His small head, thrust forward on a rather long neck, was pointed at Mr. Oricto like an arrow. His eyes held Mr. Oricto’s in an unwavering stare.
Mr. Oricto wanted to bolt away, to leap from the platform and run blindly down the railroad tracks. That was one thing he had always been good at—running. But his legs might as well have been jelly; they could not respond to the panicky prompting of his will.
He opened his mouth to scream. Just then there was a sudden sweep of lights, a subdued roaring, and his train rushed into view around a curve.
The stranger hesitated. For one nightmare instant he seemed about to lunge forward. Then he straightened up, turned and strolled back toward the waiting room.
Never in his life had Mr. Oricto been so overjoyed to see a train arrive. He ran toward the track, grateful, inexpressibly relieved, blessing the steel behemoth sent out of the night to save him.
As he swung aboard, he shot a quick look in both directions. With immense relief, he saw that no one else appeared to be getting on.
The train did not stop long in Newbridge. It was a virtual express to Porthaven and Newbridge was an unimportant stop along the way, the last stop in fact, before Porthaven. By the time Mr. Oricto got his bag in the overhead rack, the train was once again rushing through the rainy night.
He sprawled in his seat, feeling weak, chilled and exhausted. Never before had he experienced such nameless fear, such acute and overpowering apprehension. He did not dare to think what might have happened if the train had not arrived when it did.
The conductor came through the otherwise empty car, took his ticket to Porthaven, gave him a lingering, puzzled look and passed through to the next car.
The relative warmth of the train coupled with his sense of escape lulled him a little. He lay back with his eyes closed. Gradually his heart stopped hammering; he began to breathe normally again.
Rain cascaded against the train windows blurring the few lights that cut the outside darkness.
Mr. Oricto roused himself. Probably get the devil of a cold, he reflected. Well, he’d read that one should drink a lot of water for a cold. He got up, shakily, and stood in the aisle, appalled at his weakness. Making his uneven way to the water cooler, he filled a paper cup with water. After drinking three cupfuls, he swung around to return to his seat.
He stopped in his tracks. The lean stranger was lounging in a seat halfway down the car. His countenance bore an amused expression but his eyes drilled into Mr. Oricto’s like needles of steel.
For a panic-filled second Mr. Oricto almost yielded to an urgent impulse. He wanted to whirl about and rush through the forward cars until he had put as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuer.
A few unaffected cells of his frightened brain assured him that he would look ridiculous. What would the conductors think? the other passengers? And what about his bag lying there in the rack? It held some of his treasured possessions. Was he going to abandon it because an unpleasant stranger was rude enough to keep staring at him?
Reluctantly, crowding down his panic, he returned to his seat. Part of his brain was still screaming at him to run, to flee while there was time, but once back in the seat, he could not bring himself to move.
Rain sluiced against the windows. Colored lights made occasional brief kaleidoscopes and then solid darkness closed in again.
Mr. Oricto sat as if paralyzed. He dared not turn his head, but he could feel the probing gaze of the other on the back of his neck. A cold shudder corkscrewed down his spine.
If only the conductor would return!
Fighting off a feeling of hypnotic helplessness which seemed to be seeping into every fiber of him, he tried to plan ahead.
When the train neared Porthaven, he would quickly take his bag and hurry to the door. He would leap off the train as soon as it entered the station, perhaps even before it stopped. Then he would run. He had no qualms about it now. He would run, furiously, unashamedly, through the station, across the street and around the corner where a taxi should be waiting. Once inside the taxi, he would be safe. He would offer the driver extra money to speed away at a fast rate. A few minutes later he would be secure in his rooms.
Once his plans were formulated, he felt better. Then a new idea struck him and fear returned. Did he imagine it, or was the other actually reading his thoughts? Was everything going on in his head quite apparent? Were those unwavering eyes drilling right through his skull into the secret area of his mental processes?
Mr. Oricto felt that they were. Growing fear harried him, yet he could think of no alternate plan. He would have to depend on his speed, on his fleetness afoot. There was a good chance that he would make it.
As the train neared Porthaven, he got up and lifted his bag from the rack. He stood trembling as the express shot toward the station. He knew the other’s eyes were fastened on him. A wave of panic, of terrifying weakness, swept over him.
Will power alone drove him on rubbery legs to the train door. The station slid into view. He was down the metal steps. He leaped. The inertia of the moving train spun him around. Fighting to hold his bag and maintain his balance, he did a grotesque little jig.
Straightening out of it, he glanced fearfully up the platform. The lean stranger had already left the train. He was coming swiftly down the boardwalk.
If Mr. Oricto had previously entertained any desperately-cherished doubts as to the stranger’s interest in his own person, they were now instantly dispelled.
He bounded toward the platform stairs.
Hurtling down the steps four and five at a time, he reached the bottom and whirled into the long feebly-lighted tunnel which connected the platform with the station proper.
Pure terror tore at him. Rushing down the tunnel, he burst through the end doors into the station. It appeared to be entirely deserted. Not even a late sweeper was in sight; half the lights were off. There could be no sanctuary here.
Bolting toward the street doors, he heard the tunnel doors crash open behind him.
He reached the street, slippery with rain, and sprinted for the corner where a taxi should be waiting. As he neared the corner, a great dread took possession of him. This one time there would be no taxi! He would round the corner and find nothing!
He had to take the chance now. He ran, wildly.
Skidding around the corner, he saw the taxi. Groaning with relief, he shot toward it. A twist of the door handle and he was inside.
The driver sat squinting at a racing form. He appeared not to have noticed that Mr. Oricto had entered the cab.
Mr. Oricto gasped out his destination. “573 Bishop Street, driver! And please hurry!”
The driver looked up from his racing form. He turned a morose, lantern-jawed face toward Mr. Oricto. There was an unspoken rebuke in his glance.
Mr. Oricto was about to make his offer of money when the door on the opposite side of the cab was yanked open.
The lean stranger slid inside, slammed the door, and spoke softly to the driver.
The driver nodded, turning toward Mr. Oricto. “You mind another fare, buddy? Only cab around this late. And it’s rainin’.”
Mr. Oricto sat speechless, rigid, naked fear like a knifethrust in his heart.
The driver mistook his silence for reluctant acquiescence. Muttering to himself, he thrust his racing form into the glove compartment and started the cab.
As the taxi splashed through the dark, deserted streets, Mr. Oricto sat staring straight ahead. He dared not move even his eyes so much as a fraction of an inch. For blocks he sat motionless, feeling the other’s eyes inspecting him, gloating, triumphant.
Finally coherent thought returned. Could he tell the driver to take him to the police station? He felt convinced that for some reason of his own the driver would not do so. What pretext could he give? And suppose the driver did bring him to the police? What could he say? That he was being followed? Would they believe him? It would seem absurd. He could prove nothing. The stranger, he was sure, would suavely sidestep any such situation. He himself would become an object of suspicion. They might even hold him as a mental case.
Despair overcame him. But as the darkened, rainswept shop fronts moved in and out of his range of vision, one thought became uppermost: at all costs he could not let the stranger know where he lived.
Once his decision was made, he knew he would have to force himself to act immediately. Otherwise, what little strength he had left would slip away.
Scrabbling for his wallet, he told the driver to stop. His voice came out so weak, nearly a block rolled past before the driver heard his desperately repeated commands and steered toward the curb.
The driver’s morose, accusing face turned toward him questioningly.
“I—changed my mind,” Mr. Oricto explained in a whisper. He handed the driver a bill. “Keep the change.” He wrenched open the door and ran. Not once had he dared look toward the lean stranger.
The rain had stopped. A heavy mist was settling over the streets. It lifted from the pavements like
wet smoke, obscuring vision.
As he raced through the mist, Mr. Oricto remembered that he had left his bag in the cab. He hardly cared now; he could run faster without it.
He had planned to enter a bar or restaurant which was still open, but now he saw with a fresh throb of fear that it was far later than he had realized. Every establishment was closed. The streets were utterly forsaken.
When he finally slowed to a walk, he was gasping. Out of condition. Why, that was strange. All his life he had been able to run, run effortlessly almost. Almost—
He stopped to listen. Behind him in the mist he heard the swift pad of approaching feet. They were running.
He bounded forward, sprinting faster than before. Pure terror drove him on. His legs worked like pistons.
But he was already out of breath; even stark terror could supply only so much animal energy.
He knew that his pursuer was gaining. As he rushed toward an intersection, he decided to turn at right angles. Perhaps, if he wasn’t seen. . . .
Just as he pivoted to turn, he shot a frenzied glance backwards.
The face of the lean stranger arrowed through the mist. He was running smoothly, head thrust forward. With a thrill of absolute horror, Mr. Oricto thought of a weasel he had once seen streaking through the woods in pursuit of some small animal.
Even as he turned the corner, he felt his maneuver had been detected. The sight of his fearful follower, however, impelled him to a new burst of speed.
The area he had turned into was more deserted and desolate than the previous one. Dark, rubbish-littered alleys opened on every side. Warehouses and abandoned, windowless tenements lined the narrow street.
Mr. Oricto’s blood was pounding in his head. He felt dizzy, weak. He knew he would drop if he kept on running.
There was one last, desperate chance. Without daring to look around, he darted into a black alleyway. Halfway down he slammed into an empty crate, jagged with protruding wires, and skidded to his knees. Instead of getting up, he hopped on hands and knees and hid behind the crate.
Nine Horrors and a Dream Page 9
