The Howling Man

by Beaumont, Charles

  "It'll make a new man of you," he said. Then they closed the doors and locked them.

  * * *

  BLOOD BROTHER

  * * *

  "Now then," said the psychiatrist, looking up from his note pad, "when did you first discover that you were dead?"

  "Not dead," said the pale man in the dark suit. "Undead."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Just try to keep it straight. If I were dead, I'd be in great shape. That's the trouble, though. I can't die."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm not alive."

  "I see." The psychiatrist made a rapid notation. "Now, Mr. Smith, I'd like you to start at the beginning, and tell me the whole story."

  The pale man shook his head. "At twenty-five dollars an hour," he said, "are you kidding? I can barely afford to have my cape cleaned once a month."

  "I've been meaning to ask you about that. Why do you wear it?"

  "You ever hear of a vampire without a cape? It's part of the whole schmear, that's all. I don't know why!"

  "Calm yourself."

  "Calm myself! I wish I could. I tell you, Doctor, I'm going right straight out of my skull. Look at this!" The man who called himself Smith put out his hands. They were a tremblous blur of white. "And look at this!" He pulled down the flaps beneath his eyes, revealing an intricate red lacework of veins. "Believe me," he said, flinging himself upon the couch, "another few days of this and I'll be ready for the funny farm!"

  The psychiatrist picked a mahogany letter opener off his desk and tapped his palm. "I would appreciate it," he said, "if you would make an effort to avoid those particular terms."

  "All right," said the pale man. "But you try living on blood for a year, and see how polite you are. I mean--"

  "The beginning, Mr. Smith."

  "Well, I met this girl, Dorcas, and she bit me."

  "Yes?"

  "That's all. It doesn't take much, you know."

  The psychiatrist removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "As I understand it," he said, "you think you're a vampire."

  "No," said Smith. "I think I'm a human being, but I am a vampire. That's the hell of it. I can't seem to adjust."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Well, the hours for instance. I used to have very regular habits. Work from nine to five, home, a little TV, maybe, into bed by ten, up at six-thirty. Now--" He shook his head violently from side to side. "You know how it is with vampires."

  "Let's pretend I don't," said the psychiatrist, soothingly. "Tell me. How is it?"

  "Like I say, the hours. Everything's upside-down. That's why I made this appointment with you so late. See, you're supposed to sleep during the day and work at night."

  "Why?"

  "Boy, you've got me. I asked Dorcas, that's the girl bit me, and she said she'd try and find out, but nobody seems to be real sure about it."

  "Dorcas," said the psychiatrist, pursing his lips. "That's an unusual name."

  "Dorcas Schultz is an unusual girl, I'll tell you. A real nut. She's on that late-late TV show, you know? The one that runs all those crummy old horror movies?" Smith scraped a stain from his cloak with his fingernail. "Maybe you know her. She recommended you."

  "It's possible. But let's get back to you. You were speaking of the hours."

  Smith wrung his hands. "They're murdering me," he said. "Eight fly-by-night jobs I've had--eight!--and lost every one!"

  "Would you care to explain that?"

  "Nothing to explain. I just can't stay awake, that's all. I mean, every night--I mean every day--I toss and turn for hours and then when I finally do doze off, boom, it's nightfall and I've got to get out of the coffin."

  "The coffin?"

  "Yeah. That's another sweet wrinkle. The minute you go bat, you're supposed to give up beds and take a casket. Which is not only sick, but expensive as hell." Smith shook his head angrily. "First you got to buy the damn thing. Do you know the cost of the average casket?"

  "Well--" began the psychiatrist.

  "Astronomical! Completely out of proportion. I'm telling you, it's a racket! For anything even halfway decent you're going to drop five bills, easy. But that's just the initial outlay. Then there's the cartage and the cleaning bills."

  "I don't--"

  "Seventy-five to a hundred every month, month in, month out."

  "I'm afraid I--"

  "The grave dirt, man! Sacking out in a coffin isn't bad enough, no, you've got to line it with soil from the family plot. I ask you, who's got a family plot these days? Have you?"

  "No, but--"

  "Right. So what do you do? You go out and buy one. Then you bring home a couple pounds of dirt and spread it around in the coffin. Wake up at night and you're covered with it." Smith clicked his tongue exasperatedly. "If you could just wear pajamas--but no, the rules say the full bit. Ever hear of anything so crazy? You can't even take off your shoes, for cry eye!" He began to pace. "Then there's the bloodstains."

  The psychiatrist lowered his pad, replaced his glasses, and regarded his patient with a not incurious eye.

  "I must go through twenty white shirts a month," continued Smith. "Even at two-fifty a shirt, that's a lot of dough. You're probably thinking, Why isn't he more careful? Well, listen, I try to be. But it isn't like eating a bowl of tomato soup, you know." A shudder, or something like a shudder, passed over the pale man. "That's another thing. The diet. I mean, I always used to like my steaks rare, but this is ridiculous! Blood for breakfast, blood for lunch, blood for dinner. Uch--just the thought of it makes me queasy to the stomach!" Smith flung himself back onto the couch and closed his eyes. "It's the monotony that gets you," he said, "although there's plenty else to complain about. You know what I mean?"

  "Well," said the psychiatrist, clearing his throat, "I--"

  "Filthy stuff! And the routines I have to go through to get it! What if you had to rob somebody every time you wanted a hamburger--I mean, just supposing. That's the way it is with me. I tried stocking up on plasma, but that's death warmed over. A few nights of it and you've got to go after the real thing, it doesn't matter how many promises you've made to yourself."

  "The real thing?"

  "I don't like to talk about it," said Smith, turning his head to the wall. "I'm actually a very sensitive person, know what I mean? Gentle. Kind. Never could stand violence, not even as a kid. Now . . ." He sobbed wrackingly, leaped to his feet, and resumed pacing. "Do you think I enjoy biting people? Do you think I don't know how disgusting it is? But, I tell you, I can't help it! Every few nights I get this terrible urge . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "You'll hate me."

  "No, Mr. Smith."

  "Yes you will. Everybody does. Everybody hates a vampire." The pale man withdrew a large silk hankerchief from his pocket and daubed at sudden tears. "It isn't fair," he choked. "After all, we didn't ask to become what we are, did we? Nobody ever thinks of that."

  "You feel, then, that you are being persecuted?"

  "Damn right," said Smith. "And you know why? I'll tell you why. Because I am being persecuted. That's why. Have you ever heard a nice thing said about a vampire? Ever in your whole life? No. Why? Because people hate us. But I'll tell you something even sillier. They fear us, too!" The pale man laughed a wild, mirthless laugh. "Us," he said. "The most helpless creatures on the face of the Earth! Why, it doesn't take anything to knock us over. If we don't cut our throats trying to shave-- you know the mirror bit: no reflection--we stand a chance to land flat on our back because the neighbor downstairs is cooking garlic. Or bring us a little running water, see what happens. We flip our lids. Or silver bullets. Daylight, for crying out loud! If I'm not back in that stupid coffin by dawn, zow, I'm out like a light. So I'm out late, and time sort of gets away from me, and I look at my watch and I've got ten minutes. What do I do? Any other vampire in his right mind, he changes into a bat and flies. Not me. You know why?"

  The psychiatrist shook his head.

  "Because I can't stand the ugly t
hings. They make me sick just to look at, let alone be. And then there's all the hassle of taking off your clothes and all. So I grab a cab and just pray there isn't any traffic. Boy. Or take these." He smiled for the first time, revealing two large pointed incisors. "What do you imagine happens to us when our choppers start to go? I've had this one on the left filled it must be haifa dozen times. The dentist says if I was smart I'd have 'em all yanked out and a nice denture put in. Sure. Can't you just see me trying to rip out somebody's throat with a pair of false teeth? Or take the routine with the wooden stake. It used to be that was kind of a secret. Now with all these lousy movies, the whole world is in on the gag. I ask you, Doctor, how are you supposed to be able to sleep when you know that everybody in the block is just itching to find you so they can drive a piece of wood into your heart? Huh? Man, you talk about sick! Those people are in really bad shape!" He shuddered again. "I'll tell you about the jazz with crosses, but frankly, even thinking about it makes me jumpy. You know what? I have to walk three blocks out of my way to avoid the church I used to go to every Sunday. But don't get the idea it's just churches. No; it's anything. Cross your fingers and I'll start sweating. Lay a fork over a knife and I'll probably jump right out the window. So then what happens? I splatter myself all over the sidewalk, right? But do I die? Oh, hell, no. Doc, listen! You've got to help me! If you don't, I'm going to go off my gourd, I know it!"

  The psychiatrist folded his note pad and smiled. "Mr. Smith," he said, "you may be surprised to learn that yours is a relatively simple problem . . . with a relatively simple cure."

  "Really?" asked the pale man.

  "To be sure," said the psychiatrist. "Just lie down on the couch there. That's it. Close your eyes. Relax. Good." The psychiatrist rose from his chair and walked to his desk. "While it is true that this syndrome is something of a rarity," he said, "I do not forsee any great difficulty." He picked something off the top of the desk and returned. "It is primarily a matter of adjustment and of right thinking. Are you quite relaxed?"

  Smith said that he was.

  "Good," said the psychiatrist. "Now we begin the cure." With which comment he raised his arm high in the air, held it there for a moment, then plunged it down, burying the mahogany letter opener to its hilt in Mr. Smith's heart.

  Seconds later, he was dialing a telephone number.

  "Is Dorcas there?" he asked, idly scratching the two circular marks on his neck. "Tell her it's her fiancé."

  * * *

  Introduction to A DEATH IN THE COUNTRY

  (by William F. Nolan)

  * * *

  For eight years, from the mid 1950s into the early 1960s, Chuck Beaumont and I shared a feverish passion for auto racing. I owned and raced British Austin-Healeys; he owned and raced German Porsches. We co-edited two fat books of motor racing material, Omnibus of Speed and When Engines Roar. We attended (and reported on) dozens of road races from Pebble Beach to Sebring to Nassau in the Bahamas. We watched James Dean race his white Porsche Speedster at Palm Springs and Steve Mc Queen power to victory in his silver Lotus at Santa Barbara. We flew to Europe in 1960, to glory in the Monaco Grand Prix--full-throttle Formula One machines blasting through the streets of Monte Carlo! We knew all the top drivers, drank with them, rapped with them, anguished over their losses, celebrated their victories. And we wrote numerous articles and stories about the sport we loved. Among these: "A Death In the Country."

  Although Chuck and I were almost totally into sports car and Grand Prix racing, the "stockers" also fascinated us. "A Death in the Country" reflects that fascination. It's a study of true grit, and had Ernest Hemingway turned his attention to the racing stockers, this is the kind of tale he would have written.

  Professional stock-car racing can be glamourous and financially rewarding. But there is a second, darker side to the coin. On the small dirt ovals, in numerous "tank towns" scattered across country, the big stockers lose their shine. Here the crowds are impatient and bloodthirsty, the purses small, the duels hard-fought and bitter. In the choking Sunday afternoon dust of the fender-to-fender conflict, fair play is a seldom indulged luxury; victory does not always belong to the swift, but more often to the savage. In this brilliantly-etched character study, Beaumont tells us about Buck Larsen, a scarred track warrior of the old school, who could not afford to lose.

  When I read this story I remember long afternoons of blazing sun, the smells of oil and hot metal, the snarling sound of unmuffled engines at full battle cry. I remember the tension, the heart-in-the-throat excitement as a downswept flag releases the pack, the sudden roar of the crowd . . . and I remember Chuck Beaumont, the finest, dearest friend a man could ever have. My racing days are many years behind me. I miss them. But, most of all, I miss ole Chuck, God bless him.

  I miss him very much.

  * * *

  A DEATH IN THE COUNTRY

  * * *

  He had been driving for 11 hours and he was hungry and hot and tired, but he couldn't stop, he couldn't pull over to the side of the road and stop under one of those giant pines and rest a little while; no. Because, he thought, if you do that, you'll fall asleep. And you'll sleep all night, you know that, Buck, and you'll get into town late, maybe too late to race, and then what will you do?

  So he kept on driving, holding a steady 70 down the long straights, and through the sweeping turns that cut through the fat green mountains. He could climb to 80 and stay there and shorten the agony, except that it had begun to rain; and it was the bad kind that is light, like mist, and puts a slick film on the road. At 80 he would have to work. Besides, you have got to take it easy now. He thought, you have got a pretty old mill under the hood, and she's cranky and just about ready to sour out, but she'd better not sour out tomorrow. If she does, you're in a hell of a shape. You know that all right. So let her loaf.

  Buck Larsen rolled the window down another three inches and sucked the cool, sharp air into his lungs. It was clean stuff, with a wet pine smell, and it killed the heat some and cleared his head, but he hated it, because rain made it that way. And rain was no good. Sure, it was OK sometimes; it made things grow, and all that; and probably people were saying, by God, that's wonderful, that's great--rain! But they would feel different if they had to race on it, by Christ. It would be another story then. All of a sudden they would look up at the sky and see some dark clouds and their hearts would start pounding then and they'd be scared, you can bet your sweet ass; they'd start praying to God to hold it off just a little while, just a few hours, please. But it would come, anyway. It would come. And that nice dirt track would turn to mush and maybe you're lucky and you don't total your car out, and maybe this is not one of your lucky days and the money is gone and you don't have a goddamn thing except your car and you make a bid, only the rain has softened the track and somebody has dug a hole where there wasn't any hole a lap ago, and you hit it, and the wheel whips out of your hands and you try to hold it, but it's too late, way too late, you're going over. You know that. And nothing can stop you, either, not all the lousy prayers in the world, not all the promises; so you hit the cellar fast and hope that the roll bar will hold, hope the doors won't fly open, hope the yoyos in back won't plow into you--only they will, they always do. And when it's all over, and maybe you have a broken arm or a cracked melon, then you begin to wonder what's next, because the car is totaled, and they'll insure a blind airplane pilot before they'll insure you. And you can't blame them much, either. You're not much of a risk.

  He shook his head hard, and tried to relax. It was another 60 miles to Grange. Sixty little miles. Nothing. You can do it standing up, you have before; plenty of times. (But you were younger then, remember that. You're 48 now. You're an old bastard, and you're tired and scared of the rain. That's right. You're scared.)

  The hell!

  Buck Larsen looked up at the slate-colored sky and frowned; then he peered through the misted windshield. A bend was approaching. He planted his foot on the accelerator and entered the curve at 97 miles
per hour. The back end of the car began to slide gently to the left. He eased off the throttle, straightened, and fed full power to the wheels. They stuck.

  Yeah, he said.

  The speedometer needle slipped back to 70 and did not move. It was fine, you're OK, he thought, and you'll put those country fair farmers in your back pocket. You'd better, anyway. Maybe not for a first, but a second; third at worst. Third money ought to be around three hundred. But, he thought, what if the rain spoils the gate? Never mind, it won't. These yokels are wild for blood. A little rain won't stop them.

  A sign read: GRANGE--41 MILES.

  Buck snapped on his headlights. Traffic was beginning to clutter up the road, and he was glad of it, in a way; you don't get so worried when there are people around you. He just wished they wouldn't look at him that way, like they'd come to the funeral too early. You sons of bitches, he thought. You don't know me, I'm a stranger to you, but you all want to see me get killed tomorrow. That's what you want, that's why you'll go to the race. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I really am. That's why I ain't popular: I stayed alive too long. (And then he thought, no, that isn't why. The reason you're not popular is because you don't go very good. Come on, Larsen, admit it. Face it. You're old and you're getting slow. You're getting cautious. That's why you don't run in the big events no more, because in those you're a tail-ender; maybe not dead last, but back in the back. Nobody sees you. Nobody pays you. And you work just as hard. So you make the jumps out here, in the sticks, running with the local boys, because you used to be pretty good, you used to be, and you've got a hell of a lot of experience behind you, and you can count on finishing in the money. But you're losing it. The coordination's on the way out; you don't think fast any more, you don't move fast; you don't drive fast.)

  A big Lincoln, dipping with the ruts, rolled by. The driver stared. I'm sorry, Buck told him. I'd like to die for you, Buddy, but I just ain't up to it; I been kind of sick, you know how it goes. But come to the track anyway; I mean, you never can tell. Maybe I'll go on my head, maybe I'll fall out and the stinking car will roll over the top of me and they'll have to get me up with a rake. It could happen.