The Howling Man

by Beaumont, Charles

  Prentice stiffened.

  "Well, when you lose your girl, you lose a lot of your ambition. I told him yes, I was plenty bored. And he said, 'I used to be'. I remember his exact words. 'I used to be,' he said. 'The long haul to success, the fight, the midnight oil: it was over, I'd made it', he said. 'Dough in the bank. Partnership in a top agency. Daughter grown and away to school. I was ready to be put out to pasture, Matt. But the thing was, I was only fifty-two! I had maybe another twenty years left. And almost everybody else in the block was the same way--Ed and Ben and Oscar, all the same. You know: they fooled around with their jobs, but they weren't interested any more--not really. Because the jobs didn't need them any more. They were bored." Dystal walked to the nightstand and poured himself a drink. "That was five years ago," he murmured. "Ames, he pussy-footed around the thing for a while--feeling me out, testing me; then he told me that he had decided to do something about it. About being bored. He'd organized everyone in the block. Once a week, he explained, they played games. It was real Group Activity. Community effort. It began with charades, but they got tired of that in a while. Then they tried cards. To make it interesting they bet high. Everybody had his turn at losing. Then, Ames said, someone suggested making the game even more interesting, because it was getting to be a drag. So they experimented with strip poker one night. Just for fun, you understand. Rhoda lost. Next time it was Charlotte. And it went that way for a while, until, finally, Beth lost, Everyone had been waiting for it. Things became anticlimactic after that, though, so the stakes changed again. Each paired off with another's wife; lowest scoring team had to--" Dystal tipped the bottle, "Sure you won't have a bracer?"

  Prentice accepted the drink without argument. It tasted bitter and powerful, but it helped.

  "Well," Dystal went on. "I had one hell of a time believing all that, I mean, you know: Ames, after all--a little bookkeeper type with gray hair and glasses . . . Still, the way he talked, I knew--somehow, I knew--it was the truth. Maybe because I didn't feel that a guy like Ames could make it all up! Anyway: when they'd tried all the possible combinations, things got dull again. A few of the women wanted to stop, but, of course, they were in too deep already. During one particular Fun Night, Ames had taken photographs. So, they had to keep going. Every week, it was something new. Something different. Swapsies occupied them for a while, Ames told me: Chambers took a two week vacation with Jacqueline, Ben and Beth went to Acapulco, and that sort of thing. And that is where I came into the picture." Dystal raised his hand. "I know, you don't need to tell me, I should have pulled out. But I was younger then. I was a big writer, man of the world. Training in Hollywood. I couldn't tell him I was shocked: it would have been betraying my craft. And he figured it that way, too: that's why he told me. Besides, he knew I'd be bound to find out eventually. They could hide it from just about everybody, but not someone right in the block. So, I played along. I accepted his invitation to join the next Group Activity--which is what he calls them.

  "Next morning, I thought I'd dreamed the whole visit, I really did. But on Saturday, sure enough, the phone rings and Ames says, 'We begin at eight, sharp.' When I got to his house, I found it packed. Everybody in the neighborhood. Looking absolutely the same as always, too. Drinks; dancing; the whole bit. After a while, I started to wonder if the whole thing wasn't an elaborate gag. But at ten, Ames told us about the evening's surprise." Dystal gave way to a shudder. "It was a surprise, all right," he said. "I told them I wanted nothing to do with it, but Ames had done something to my drink. I didn't seem to have any control. They led me into the bedroom, and . . ."

  Prentice waited, but Dystal did not complete his sentence. His eyes were dancing now.

  "Never mind," he said. "Never mind what happened! The point is, I was drunk, and--well, I went through with it. I had to. You can see that, can't you?"

  Prentice said that he could see that.

  "Ames pointed out to me that the only sin, the only one, was being bored. That was his justification, that was his incentive. He simply didn't want to sin, that was all. So the Group Activities went on. And they got worse. Much worse. One thing, they actually plotted a crime and carried it off: the Union Bank robbery, maybe you read about it: 1953. I drove the car for them. Another time, they decided it would ward off ennui by setting fire to a warehouse down by the docks, The fire spread. Prentice-- do you happen to remember that DC-7 that went down between here and Detroit?"

  Prentice said, "Yes, I remember."

  "Their work," Dystal said. "Ames planned it. In a way, I think he's a genius. I could spend all night telling you the things we did, but there isn't time. I've got to skip." He placed his fingers over his eyes. "Joan of Arc," he said, "was the turning point. Ames had decided that it would be diverting to re-enact famous scenes from literature, So he and Bud went down to Main Street, I think it was, and found a beat doll who thought the whole thing would be fun. They gave her twenty-five dollars, but she never got a chance to spend it. I remember that she laughed right to the point where Ames lit the pile of oil-soaked rags . . - Afterwards, they re-enacted other scenes. The execution of Marie Antoinette. The murder of Hamlet's father. You know The Man in the Iron Mask? They did that one. And a lot more, It lasted quite a while, too, but Ames began to get restless," Dystal held out his hands suddenly and stared at them. "The next game was a form of Russian roulette. We drew straws. Whoever got the short one had to commit suicide--in his own way. It was understood that if he failed, it would mean something much worse--and Ames had developed some damned interesting techniques. Like the nerve clamps, for instance. Thomas lost the game, anyway. They gave him twelve hours to get it over with."

  Prentice felt a cold film of perspiration over his flesh. He tried to speak, but found that it was impossible. The man, of course, was crazy. Completely insane. But--he had to hear the end of the story. "Go on." he said.

  Dystal ran his tongue across his lower lip, poured another drink and continued, "Cummings and Chambers got scared then," he said. "They argued that some stranger would move into the house and then there'd be all sorts of trouble, We had a meeting at Reiker's, and Chris came out with the idea of us all chipping in and buying the place. But Ames didn't go for it. 'Let's not be so darned exclusive,' he said. 'After all, the new poeple might be bored, too. Lord knows we could use some fresh blood in the Group'. Cummings was pessimistic. He said, 'What if you're wrong? What if they don't want to join us?' Ames laughed it off, 'I hope,' he said, 'that you don't think we're the only ones. Why, every city has its neighborhood just like ours. We're really not that unique.' And then he went on to say that if the new people didn't work out, he would take care of the situation. He didn't say how."

  Dystal looked out the window again.

  "I can see that he's almost ready to give you an invitation, Prentice. Once that happens, you're finished. It's join them or accept the only alternative."

  Suddenly the room was very quiet.

  "You don't believe me, do you?"

  Prentice opened his mouth.

  "No, of course you don't. It's a madman's ravings. Well, I'm going to prove it to you, Prentice." He started for the door. "Come on. Follow me; but don't make any noise."

  Dystal walked out the back door, closed it, moved soundlessly across the soft, black grass.

  "They're on a mystic kick right now," he whispered to Prentice. "Ames is trying to summon the devil. Last week we slaughtered a dog and read the Commandments backward; the week before, we did some chants out of an old book that Ben found in the library; before that it was orgies--" He shook his head. "It isn't working out, though. God knows why. You'd think the devil would be so delighted with Ames that he'd sign him up for the team."

  Prentice followed his neighbor across the yards, walking carefully, and wondering why. He thought of his neat little office on Harmon Street, old Mrs. Gleason, the clean, well-lighted restaurant where he had his lunch and read newspaper headlines; and they seemed terribly far away.

  Why, he asked him
self, am I creeping around backyards with a lunatic at midnight?

  Why?

  "The moon is full tonight, Prentice. That means they'll be trying again."

  Silently, without the slightest sound, Matthew Dystal moved across the lawns, keeping always to the shadows. A minute later he raised his hand and stopped.

  They were at the rear of the Ameses' house.

  It was dark inside.

  "Come on," Dystal whispered.

  "Wait a minute." Somehow, the sight of his own living room, still blazing with light, reassured Prentice, "I think I've had enough for this evening."

  "Enough?" Dystal's face twisted grotesquely. He bunched the sleeve of Prentice's jacket in his fist. "Listen," he hissed, "listen, you idiot. I'm risking my life to help you. Don't you understand yet? If they find out I've talked . . ." He released the sleeve. "Prentice, please. You have a chance now, a chance to clear out of this whole stinking mess; but you won't have it long--Believe me!"

  Prentice sighed. "What do you want me to do?" he said.

  "Nothing. Just come with me, quietly. They're in the basement,"

  Breathing hard now, Dystal tiptoed around to the side of the house. He stopped at a small, earth-level window.

  It was closed.

  "Prentice. Softly. Bend down and keep out of view."

  In invisible, slow movements, Dystal reached out and pushed the window. It opened a half inch. He pushed it again. It opened another half inch.

  Prentice saw yellow light stream out of the crack. Instantly his throat felt very dry, very painful.

  There was a noise. A low, murmurous sound, a susurrus, like distant humming.

  "What's that?"

  Dystal put a finger to his lips and motioned: "Here."

  Prentice knelt down at the window and looked into the light.

  At first he could not believe what his eyes saw.

  It was a basement, like other basements in old houses, with a large iron furnace and a cement floor and heavy beams. This much he could recognize and understand. The rest, he could not.

  In the center of the floor was a design; obviously drawn in colored chalks. It looked a bit, to Prentice, like a Star of David, although there were other designs around and within it. They were not particularly artistic, but they were intricate. In the middle was a large cup, similar to a salad bowl, vaguely familiar, empty.

  "There," whispered Dystal, withdrawing.

  Slightly to the left were drawn a circle and a pentagram, its five points touching the circumference equally.

  Prentice blinked and turned his attention to the people.

  Standing on a block of wood, surrounded by men and women, was a figure in a black robe and a serpent-shaped crown.

  It was Ames.

  His wife, Charlotte, dressed in a white gown, stood next to him. She held a brass lamp.

  Also in robes and gowns were Ben and Rhoda Roth, Bud Reiker and his wife, the Cummingses, the Chamberses, the Johnsons--.

  Prentice shook away his sudden dizziness and shaded his eyes.

  To the right, near the furnace, was a table with a white sheet draped across it. And two feet away, an odd, six-sided structure with black candles burning from a dozen apertures.

  "Listen," Dystal said.

  Ames' eyes were closed, Softly, he was chanting:

  All degradation, all sheer infamy,

  Thou shalt endure. Thy head beneath the mire,

  And drug of worthless women shall desire

  As in some hateful dream, at last to lie;

  Woman must trample thee thou respire

  That deadliest fume;

  The vilest worms must crawl, the loathliest vampires

  gloom . . .

  "The Great Beast," chuckled Dystal.

  "I," said Ames, "am Ipsissimus," and the others chanted, "He is Ipsissimus."

  "I have read the books, dark Lord. The Book of Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin the Mage I have read, and I reject it!"

  "We reject it!" murmured the Roths.

  "The power of Good shall be served by the power of Darkness, always."

  He raised his hands. "In Thy altar is the stele of Ankf-f-n-Khonsu; there, also, The Book of the Dead and The Book of the Law, six candles to each side, my Lord, Bell, Burin, Lamen, Sword, Cup, and the Cakes of Life . . ."

  Prentice looked at the people he had seen only a few hours ago in his living room, and shuddered. He felt very weak.

  "We, your servants," said Ames, signing the words, "beseech your presence, Lord of Night and of Life Eternal, Ruler of the Souls of men in all Thy vast dominion.

  Prentice started to rise, but Dystal grasped his jacket. "No," he said. "Wait. Wait another minute. This is something you ought to see."

  ". . . we live to serve you, grant us . . ."

  "He's begging the devil to appear," whispered Dystal.

  ". . . tonight, and offer the greatest and most treasured gift. Accept our offering!" "Accept it!" cried the others.

  "What the hell is this, anyway?" Prentice demanded, feverishly.

  Then Ames stopped talking, and the rest were silent. Ames raised his left hand and lowered it. Chris Cummings and Bud Reiker bowed and walked backwards into the shadows where Prentice could not see them.

  Charlotte Ames walked to the six-sided structure with the candles and picked up a long, thin object.

  She returned and handed this to her husband. It was a knife.

  "Killnotshaltthou!" screamed Ed Chambers, and he stepped across the pentagram to the sheet-shrouded table.

  Prentice rubbed his eyes.

  "Shhh."

  Bud Reiker and Chris Cummings returned to the center of light then. They were carrying a bundle. It was wrapped in blankets.

  The bundle thrashed and made peculiar muffled noises. The men lifted it onto the table and held it.

  Ames nodded and stepped down from the block of wood. He walked to the table and halted, the long-bladed butcher knife glittering in the glow of the candles.

  "To Thee, O Lord of the Underground, we made this offering! To Thee, the rarest gift of all!"

  "What is it?" Prentice asked. "What is this gift?"

  Dystal's voice was ready and eager. "A virgin," he said.

  Then they removed the blanket.

  Prentice felt his eyes bursting from their sockets, felt his heart charging the walls of his chest.

  "Ann," he said, in a choked whisper. "Ann!" The knife went up.

  Prentice scrambled to his feet and fought the dizziness. "Dystal," he cried.

  "Dystal, for God's sake, what are they doing? Stop them. You hear me? Stop them!"

  "I can't," said Matthew Dystal, sadly. "It's too late. I'm afraid your wife said a few things she shouldn't have, Prentice. You see--we've been looking for a real one for such a long time . . ."

  Prentice tried to lunge, but the effort lost him his balance. He fell to the ground. His arms and legs were growing numb, and he remembered, suddenly, the bitter taste of the drink he'd had.

  "It really couldn't have been avoided, though," Dystal said. "I mean, the boy knew, and he'd have told you eventually. And you'd have begun investigating, and--oh, you understand. I told Lucian we should have bought the place, but he's so obstinate; thinks he knows everything! Now, of course, we'll have to burn it, and that does seem a terrible waste." He shook his head from side to side. "But don't you worry," he said. "You'll be asleep by then and, I promise, you won't feel a thing. Really."

  Prentice turned his eyes from the window and screamed silently for a long time.

  * * *

  PERCHANCE TO DREAM

  * * *

  "Please sit down," the psychiatrist said, indicating a somewhat worn leather couch.

  Automatically, Hall sat down. Instinctively, he leaned back. Dizziness flooded through him, his eyelids fell like sashweights, the blackness came. He jumped up quickly and slapped his right cheek, then he slapped his left cheek, hard.

  "I'm sorry, Doctor," he said.

  The psy
chiatrist, who was tall and young and not in the least Viennese nodded. "You prefer to stand?" he asked, gently.

  "Prefer?" Hall threw his head back and laughed. "That's good," he said. "Prefer!"

  "I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

  "Neither do I, Doctor." He pinched the flesh of his left hand until it hurt. "No, no: that isn't true. I do understand. That's the whole trouble. I do."

  "You--want to tell me about it?"

  "Yes. No." It's silly, he thought. You can't help me. No one can. I'm alone! "Forget it," he said and started for the door.

  The psychiatrist said, "Wait a minute." His voice was friendly, concerned; but not patronizing. "Running away won't do you much good, will it?"

  Hall hesitated.

  "Forgive the cliché. Actually, running away is often the best answer. But I don't know yet that yours is that sort of problem."

  "Did Dr. Jackson tell you about me?"

  "No. Jim said he was sending you over, but he thought you'd do a better job on the details. I only know that your name is Philip Hall, you're thirty-one, and you haven't been able to sleep for a long time."

  "Yes. A long time ..." To be exact, seventy-two hours, Hall thought, glancing at the clock. Seventy-two horrible hours . . .

  The psychiatrist tapped out a cigarette. "Aren't you--" he began.

  "Tired? God yes. I'm the tiredest man on Earth! I could sleep forever. But that's just it, you see: I would. I'd never wake up."