THE TERROR TREAT OF THE YEAR
Fourteen of the finest vintage, chilled to the last drop!
"Is it not better to do the deed before rather than after birth? We can—we must—stem the tide of surplus human beings who threaten to engulf the rapidly diminishing spaces of this earth!"
What strange eyes you have, what bandaged wrists, what a lopsided left-handed look! What has become of Paul, or rather, what have you done with Paul? What lies under the bandages and behind that crooked look, which try as I may, I cannot get into proper perspective—except as an image in a plate-glass door?
"My friend, you have searched in vain. For Cimmeria, or that which remains of it, encompasses all of that northeastern part of England which is your homeland. Is it not ironic? In order to find home . . . you have left it!"
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
DOUBLE WHAMMY © Robert Bloch, 1970. First published in FANTASTIC and reproduced by arrangement with the author's agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency.
THE SISTER CITY © Brian Lumley, 1970. First published in TALES OF THE CTHULHU MYTHOS (Arkham House, 1970) and reproduced by arrangement with the author.
WHEN MORNING COMES © Elizabeth Fancett, 1969. First published in THE FIFTH GHOST BOOK, edited by Rosemary Timperley (Barrie & Jenkins 1969) and reproduced by arrangement with the publishers.
PREY © Richard Matheson, 1969. First published in PLAYBOY and reproduced by arrangement with the author's agents, A. D. Peters & Co. Ltd.
WINTER © Kit Reed, 1970. First published in ARGOSY and reproduced by arrangement with the author's agents, A. P. Watt & Sons.
LUCIFER © E. C. Tubb, 1969. First published in VISION OF TOMORROW and reproduced by arrangement with the author's agents, Cosmos Literary Agency, Wallsend-on-Tyne.
I WONDER WHAT HE WANTED © Eddy C. Bertin, 1970. First published in Spanish in LAS MEJORES HISTORIAS DE FANTASMAS (Editorial Bruguera, 1970) translated by the author and reproduced by arrangement with him.
PROBLEM CHILD © Peter Oldale, 1970. First published in VISION OF TOMORROW and reproduced by arrangement with the author's agents, Cosmos Literary Agency, Wallsend-on-Tyne.
THE SCAR © Ramsey Campbell, 1969. First published in STARTLING MYSTERY, STORIES and reproduced by arrangement with the author.
WARP © Ralph Norton, 1968. First published in MAYFAIR and reproduced by arrangement with the author's agents, Kay Routledge Associates.
THE HATE © Terri Pinckard, 1971. First published in WITCHCRAFT AND SORCERY (formerly COVEN 13) and reproduced by arrangement with the author's agents, the Ackerman Agency, Los Angeles.
A QUIET GAME © Celia Fremlin, 1970. First published in ARGOSY and reproduced by arrangement with the author's agents, Anthony Sheil Associates Ltd.
AFTER NIGHTFALL © David Riley, 1970. First published in WEIRD WINDOW 1970, edited by David Sutton. Reproduced by arrangement with the author.
DEATH'S DOOR © Robert McNear, 1969. First published in PLAYBOY and reproduced by arrangement with the author.
Copyright ©, 1971, by Sphere Books Ltd.
DAW Books edition by special arrangement.
All rights reserved.
Any similarity or apparent connection between the characters in these stories and actual persons, whether alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Karel Thole.
PRINTED IN U.S.A.
Wickerman eBooks
DOUBLE WHAMMY by Robert Bloch
Rod pulled the chicken out of the burlap bag and threw it down into the pit.
The chicken squawked and fluttered, and Rod glanced away quickly. The gaping crowd gathered around the canvas walls of the pit ignored him; now all the eyes were focussed on what was happening down below. There was a cackling, a scrabbling sound, and then a sudden sharp simultaneous intake of breath from the spectators.
Rod didn't have to look. He knew that the geek had caught the chicken.
Then the crowd began to roar. It was a strange noise, compounded of women's screams, high harsh laughter teetering on the edge of hysteria, and deep hoarse masculine murmurs of shocked dismay.
Rod knew what that sound meant, too.
The geek was biting off the chicken's head.
Rod stumbled out of the little tent, not looking back, grateful for the cool night air that fanned his sweating face. His shirt was soaked through under the cheap blazer. He'd have to change again before he went up on the outside platform to make his next pitch.
The pitch itself didn't bother him. Being a talker was his job and he was good at it; he liked conning the marks and turning the tip. Standing up there in front of the bloody banners and spieling about the Strange People always gave him his kicks, even if he was only working for a lousy mudshow that never played anywhere north of Tennessee. For three seasons straight he'd been with it, he was a pro, a real carny.
But now, all of a sudden, something was spooking him. No use kidding himself, he had to face it.
Rod was afraid of the geek.
He crossed behind the ten-in-one tent and moved in the direction of his little trailer, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. That helped a little, but he couldn't wipe away what was inside his head. The cold, clammy fear was always there now, night and day.
Hell of it was, it didn't make sense. The Monarch of Mirth Shows had always worked "strong"—out here in the old boondocks and you could still get away with murder, particularly if you were only killing chickens. And who gives a damn about chickens, anyway? The butchers chop off a million heads a day. A chicken is just a lousy bird, and a geek is just a lousy wino. A rumdum who hooks up with a carny, puts on a phoney wild-man outfit and hops around in the bottom of a canvas enclosure while the talker gives the crowd a line about this ferocious monster, half man and half beast. Then the talker throws in the chicken and the geek does his thing.
Rod shook his head, but what was inside it didn't move. It stayed there, cold and clammy and coiled up in a ball. It had been there almost ever since the beginning of this season, and now Rod was conscious that it was growing. The fear was getting bigger.
But why? He'd worked with half a dozen lushes over the past three years. Maybe biting the head off a live chicken wasn't exactly the greatest way to make a living, but if the geeks didn't mind, why should he care? And Rod knew that a geek wasn't really a monster, just a poor old futz who was down on his luck and hooked on the sauce—willing to do anything, as long as he got his daily ration of popskull.
This season the geek they took on was named Mike. A quiet guy who kept out of everybody's way when he wasn't working; under the burnt-cork makeup he had the sad, wrinkled face of a man of fifty. Fifty hard years, perhaps thirty of them years of hard drinking. He never talked, just took his pint and curled up in the canvas on one of the trucks. Looking at him then, Rod was never spooked; if anything, he felt kind of sorry for the poor bastard.
It was only when the geek was in the pit that Rod felt that ball of fear uncoil. When he saw the wooly wig and the black face, the painted hands that clutched and clawed—yes, and when he saw the grinning mouth open to reveal the rotting yellow teeth, ready to bite—
Oh, it was getting to him all right, he was really up tight now. But nobody else knew. And nobody would know. Rod wasn't about to spill his guts to anyone here on the lot, and how would it look if he ran off to some head-shrinker and said, "Hey, Doc, help me—I'm afraid I'm gonna turn into a geek." He knew better than that. No shrinker could help him, and come what may he'd never end up geeking for a living. He'd lick this thing himself; he had to, and he would just as long as no one else caught on and bugged him about it.
Rod climbed the steps, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his wet s
hirt as he moved up into the darkness of the trailer.
And then he felt the hands sliding across his bare chest, moving up over his shoulders to embrace him, and he smelt the fragrance, felt the warmth and the pressure even as he heard the whispered words. "Rod—darling—are you surprised?"
Truth to tell, Rod wasn't surprised. But he was pleased that she'd been waiting for him. He took her in his arms and glued his mouth to hers as they sank down on the cot.
"Cora," he murmured. "Cora—"
"Shhhh! No time to talk."
She was right. There wasn't time, because he had to be back on the bally platform in fifteen minutes. And it wasn't a smart idea to talk anyway, not with Madame Sylvia sneaking around and popping up out of nowhere just when you least expected her. Why in hell did a swinging bird like Cora have to have an old buzzard like Madame Sylvia for a grandmother?
But Rod wasn't thinking about grandmothers now, and he wasn't thinking about geeks, either. That was what Cora did to him, that was what Cora did for him, dissolving the cold fear in warm, writhing, wanting flesh. At times like these Rod knew why he couldn't cut out, why he stayed with it. Staying with it meant staying with her, and this was enough; this was everything, with ribbons on it.
It was only later, struggling into his shirt, hearing her whisper, "Please, honey, hurry and let's get out of here before she comes looking for me," that he wondered if it was really worth it. All this horsing around for a fast grope in the dark with a teen-age spick who practically creamed her jeans every time the old lady looked cross-eyed at her.
Sure Cora was a beautiful job, custom-made for him. But when you got right down to it she was still a kid and nobody would ever mistake her brain for a computer. Besides, she was a spick—well, maybe not exactly, but she was a gypsy and that added up to the same thing.
Walking back to the bally platform for the last pitch of the evening, Rod decided it was time to cool it. From now on the chill was in.
That night the show folded and trucked to Mazoo County Fair Grounds for a ten-day stand. They were all day setting up and then the crowds surged in, rednecks from the toolies up in the hills; must have been a couple of thousand coming in night after night, and all craving action.
For almost a week Rod managed to keep out of Cora's way without making it too obvious. Her grandmother was running the mitt camp concession on the other end of the Midway and Cora was supposed to shall for her; usually she was too busy to sneak off. A couple of times Rod caught sight of her signalling to him from down in the crowd around the bally platform, but he always looked the other way, pretending he didn't see her. And once he heard her scratching on the trailer door in the middle of the night, only he made out that he was asleep, even when she called out to him, and after about ten minutes she went away.
The trouble was, Rod didn't sleep anywhere near that good; seemed like every time he closed his eyes now he could see the pit, see the black geek and the white chicken.
So the next time Cora came scratching on the door he let her in, and for a little while he was out of the pit, safe in her arms. And instead of the geek growling and the chicken cackling he heard her voice in the darkness, her warm, soft voice, murmuring. "You do love me, don't you, Rod?"
The answer came easy, the way it always did. "Course I do. You know that."
Her fingers tightened on his arm. "Then it's all right. We can get married and I'll have the baby—"
"Baby?"
He sat up, fast.
"I wasn't going to tell you, honey, not until I was sure, but I am now." Her voice was vibrant. "Just think, darling—"
He was thinking. And when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
"Your grandmother—Madame Sylvia—does she know?"
"Not yet. I wanted you to come with me when I tell her—"
"Tell her nothing."
"Rod?"
"Tell her nothing. Get rid of it."
"Honey—"
"You heard me."
She tried to hold him then but he wrenched himself free, stood up, reached for his shirt. She was crying now, but the louder she sobbed the more he hurried dressing, just as if she wasn't there. Just as if she wasn't stuttering and stammering all that jazz about what did he mean, he couldn't do this, he had to listen, and if the old lady found out she'd kill her.
Rod wanted to yell at her to shut up, he wanted to crack her one across the mouth and make her shut up, but he managed to control himself. And when he did speak his voice was soft.
"Take it easy, sweetheart," he said. "Let's not get ourselves all excited here. There's no problem."
"But I told you—"
He patted her arm in the darkness.
"Relax, will you? You got nothing to worry about. You told me yourself the old lady doesn't know. Get rid of it now and she never will."
Christ, it was so simple you'd think even a lame-brain like Cora would understand. But instead she was crying again, louder than ever, and beating on him with her fists.
"No, no you can't make me! We've got to get married, the first time I let you, you promised we would, just as soon as the season was over—"
"As far as I'm concerned, the season's over right now." Rod tried to keep his voice down, but when she came at him again, clinging, somehow it was worse than feeling her fists. He couldn't stand this any more; not the clinging, not the wet whimpering.
"Listen to me, Cora. I'm sorry about what happened, you know that. But you can scrub the marriage bit."
The way she blew then you'd have thought the world was coming to an end, and he had to slap her to keep the whole damn lot from hearing her screech. He felt kind of lousy, belting her one like that, but it quieted her down enough so's he could hustle her out. She went away still crying, but very quietly. And at least she got the message.
Rod didn't see her around the next day, or the one after. But in order to keep her from bugging him again, he spent both nights over at Boots Donahue's wagon, playing a little stud with the boys. He figured that if there was any trouble and he had to peel off fast, maybe he could turn a few extra bucks for the old grouchbag.
Only it didn't exactly work out that way. Usually he was pretty lucky with the pasteboards, but he had a bad run both evenings and ended up in hock for his next three paychecks. That was bad enough, but the next day was worse.
Basket Case gave him the word.
Rod was just heading for the cook tent for breakfast when Basket Case called him over. He was laying on an old army cot outside his trailer with a cigarette in his mouth.
"How's for a light?" he asked.
Rod cupped a match for him, then stuck around, knowing he'd have to flick the ashes while Basket Case had his smoke. And a guy born without arms or legs has a little trouble getting rid of a butt, too.
Funny thing, the Strange People never got to Rod, no matter how peculiar they looked. Even Basket Case, who was just a living head attached to a shapeless bundle of torso, didn't give him the creeps. Maybe it was because old Basket Case himself didn't seem to mind; he just took it for granted that he was a freak. And he always acted and sounded normal, not like that rumdum geek who put on a fright wig and blacked up and made noises like a crazy animal when he went after a chicken—
Rod tried to push away the thought and pulled out a cigarette for himself. He was just getting a match when Basket Case looked up at him.
"Heard the news?" he asked.
"What news?"
"Cora's dead."
Rod burned his fingers and the match dropped away.
"Dead?"
Basket Case nodded. "Last night. Madame Sylvia found her in the trailer after the last show—"
"What happened?"
Basket Case just looked at him. "Thought maybe you could tell me that."
Rod had to choke out the words. "What's that crack supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Basket Case shrugged. "Madame Sylvia told Donahue the kid died of a ruptured appendix."
Rod took a deep breath. He forced
himself to look sorry, but all at once he felt good, very good. Until he heard Basket Case saying, "Only thing is, I never heard of anyone rupturing their appendix with a knitting-needle."
Rod reached out and took the cigarette from Basket Case to dump his ashes. The way his hand was trembling, he didn't have to do anything but let them fall.
"The appendix story is just a cover—Madame Sylvia doesn't want the fuzz nosing around." Basket Case nodded as Rod struck the cigarette back between his lips. "But if you ask me, she knows."
"Now look, if you're saying what I think you're saying, you'd better forget it—"
"Sure, I'll forget it. But she won't." Basket Case lowered his voice. "Funeral's this afternoon, over at the county cemetery. You better show you face along with the rest of us, just so it doesn't look funny. After that, my advice to you is cut and run."
"Now wait a minute—" Rod was all set to go on, but what was the use? Basket Case knew, and there was no sense putting on an act with him. "I can't run," he said. "I'm into Boots Donahue for three weeks' advance. If I cop out, he'll spread the word around and I won't work carny again, not in these parts."
Basket Case spat the cigarette out. It landed on the ground beside the cot and Rod stamped it out. Basket Case shook his head. "Never mind the money," he said. "If you don't run, you won't be working anywhere." He glanced around cautiously and when he spoke again his voice was just a whisper. "Don't you understand? This is the crunch—I tell you, Madame Sylvia knows what happened."
Rod wasn't about to whisper. "That old bat? You said yourself she doesn't want any truck with the fuzz, and even if she did, she couldn't prove anything. So what's to be afraid of?"
"The double whammy," said Basket Case.
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