The Horror Megapack

by H. P. Lovecraft

  “Now, to go back a little while. This Procter person had been head of a counterfeiting gang for some time, and had been using this location as a manufacturing plant. It’s conveniently inaccessible, you know, and offered an ideal location. When you decided to recondition the Towers and live here, while it didn’t materially interfere with his work, since it was literally carried on underground, it did render the danger of detection much greater, so he and his two associates, both of whom were Turkish gypsies, decided to manufacture a little ghost-scare for the benefit of your servants.

  “When he’d managed to frighten the two colored men off the job, and scare half the other servants out of their senses, he applied for the post of butler to you—you’ll recall he was rather vague concerning how he came to hear you were in need of a butler just at that time?—and came down here where he could supervise the printing operations and keep watch on you and your guests at the same time.

  “I dare say you’ll be surprised to learn that two of the guests at this party, Rodney Phillips and Waterford Richie, were members of the United States Secret Service.

  “It was a surprise to Procter, a most unpleasant surprise, I imagine, and threw him into something of a panic. To do him justice, Procter was a mild-mannered sort of criminal, and never resorted to violence when he could help it, but his two associates had no such scruples. They believed fervently in the adage that dead men tell no tales. When Thomas, the stable boy, surprised one of them snooping about the smoke house last night, he was unceremoniously put to death by having his throat cut with a broken bottle.

  “When young Phillips went out to spend the night in the smoke house, he did it in hope of finding some lead to the counterfeiters’ lair, for he’d received a tip the spurious bills were coming from this part of the state. There’s a secret entrance to that smoke house, and while Phillips was looking around one of the gypsies let himself through it and strangled the poor lad, then hanged him to make it appear he’d committed suicide.

  “I hate to say it, Towneley, but your ancestors must have done a considerable amount of smuggling in the pre-Revolutionary days, for your entire grounds are honeycombed with secret passages, and there’s a perfect rabbit warren of hidden stairways from the underground storehouses to your house. Practically every room in the place can be entered, or left, by one of those unsuspected doorways. It was easy for the gypsies to enter Richie’s room last night, cut the poor chap’s throat, then leave the razor in his hand as though he had done the deed himself.

  “I don’t claim any particular credit in the matter, but I’ve made a little study of crime detection as a hobby, as has Miss Osterhaut, and we both became suspicious concerning the suicides supposed to have been committed. We weren’t greatly impressed with Procter’s version of Thomas’ death, either, and decided to do a little investigating of our own.

  “I got the Baltimore headquarters of the Treasury Department on the wire this morning and advised them what was going on. It was then I learned that they’d narrowed their search for the counterfeiters’ den down to this locality, and that you’d been under investigation, Towneley.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed his host.

  “Precisely,” the Professor responded. “I’m sorry to say that I didn’t entirely divorce my mind from that suspicion for a while. You see, we didn’t know whom to suspect, so we decided to regard everyone as guilty until the contrary appeared.

  “Procter was not caught napping, though. He must have listened in on my talk with Baltimore this evening, and decided that I, too, was a Treasury man. At any rate, he and one of his companions entered Miss Osterhaut’s room by a secret doorway and kidnapped her, holding her as bait for a clever little trap they laid for me. I walked into it, too—just marched into it with both eyes open—but my luck held, and the result—”

  He paused, surveying the circle of faces with his benign, slightly diffident smile.

  “Yes, the result is—” chorused a dozen voices.

  “Treasury officers are on their way here now. I fear they’ll have no use for one of the gypsies. Unfortunately, the poor fellow met with an accident while discussing the merits of the situation with me; but the other one and your butler will probably be allowed to put their names in cold storage for several years while they use numbers for identification purposes at Moundsville or Atlanta.”

  “Well, you funny, clever little devil,” Eugene Towneley fairly roared, striking Professor Forrester such a blow on the back that he nearly collapsed, “you’ve surely earned that reward! Here, I’ll make the check out right now!”

  “Er—I believe, on the whole, you’d best make it payable to Miss Osterhaut,” the Professor remarked as his host removed the cap from his fountain pen and unfolded his check book. “It was really her persuasion which made Procter talk and enabled us to catch up the loose ends of the case, you see.”

  “Uncle Harvey,” Rosalie protested as she paused at her bedroom door to say goodnight, “you must take this check. What’s mine is yours, you know, for I owe everything I have—home, food, education, even liberty and life, to you. I know you don’t like me to refer to myself as your slave, but if ever one person belonged to another by right of conquest and purchase, I am yours—”

  “Nonsense!” the Professor cut in. “Keep the money, child. Some day you’ll be getting married—” his voice became harsh, and he looked quickly away as he spoke—“some day you’ll be getting married, and the reward will come in handy to buy your trousseau.”

  SMALL WORLD, by William F. Nolan

  In the waiting windless dark, Lewis Stillman pressed into the building-front shadows along Wilshire Boulevard. Breathing softly, the automatic poised and ready in his hand, he advanced with animal stealth toward Western, gliding over the night-cool concrete, past ravaged clothing shops, drug and ten-cent stores, their windows shattered, their doors ajar and swinging. The city of Los Angeles, painted in cold moonlight, was an immense graveyard; the tall white tombstone buildings thrust up from the silent pavement, shadow-carved and lonely. Overturned metal corpses of trucks, busses and automobiles littered the streets.

  He paused under the wide marquee of the FOX WILTERN. Above his head, rows of splintered display bulbs gaped—sharp glass teeth in wooden jaws. Lewis Stillman felt as though they might drop at any moment to pierce his body.

  Four more blocks to cover. His destination: a small corner delicatessen four blocks south of Wilshire, on Western. Tonight he intended bypassing the larger stores like Safeway or Thriftimart, with their available supplies of exotic foods; a smaller grocery was far more likely to have what he needed. He was finding it more and more difficult to locate basic food stuffs. In the big supermarkets only the more exotic and highly spiced canned and bottled goods remained—and he was sick of caviar and oysters!

  Crossing Western, he had almost reached the far curb when he saw some of them. He dropped immediately to his knees behind the rusting bulk of an Olds 88. The rear door on his side was open, and he cautiously eased himself into the back seat of the deserted car. Releasing the safety catch on the automatic, he peered through the cracked window at six or seven of them, as they moved toward him along the street. God! Had he been seen? He couldn’t be sure. Perhaps they were aware of his position! He should have remained on the open street where he’d have a running chance. Perhaps, if his aim were true, he could kill most of them; but, even with its silencer, the gun would be heard and more of them would come. He dared not fire until he was certain they discovered him.

  They came closer, their small dark bodies crowding the walk, six of them, chattering, leaping, cruel mouths open, eyes glittering under the moon. Closer. The shrill pipings increased, rose in volume. Closer. Now he could make out their sharp teeth and matted hair. Only a few feet from the car… His hand was moist on the handle of the automatic; his heart thundered against his chest. Seconds away…

  Now!

  Lewis Stillman fell heavily back against the dusty seat-cushion, the gun loose in his trem
bling hand. They had passed by; they had missed him. Their thin pipings diminished, grew faint with distance.

  The tomb silence of late night settled around him.

  * * * *

  The delicatessen proved a real windfall. The shelves were relatively untouched and he had a wide choice of tinned goods. He found an empty cardboard box and hastily began to transfer the cans from the shelf nearest him.

  A noise from behind—a padding, scraping sound.

  Lewis Stillman whirled around, the automatic ready.

  A huge mongrel dog faced him, growling deep in its throat, four legs braced for assault. The blunt ears were laid flat along the short-haired skull and a thin trickle of saliva seeped from the killing jaws. The beast’s powerful chest-muscles were bunched for the spring when Stillman acted.

  The gun, he knew, was useless; the shots would be heard. Therefore, with the full strength of his left arm, he hurled a heavy can at the dog’s head. The stunned animal staggered under the blow, legs buckling. Hurriedly, Stillman gathered his supplies and made his way back to the street.

  How much longer can my luck hold? Lewis Stillman wondered, as he bolted the door. He placed the box of tinned goods on a wooden table and lit the tall lamp nearby. Its flickering orange glow illumined the narrow, low-ceilinged room as Stillman seated himself on one of three chairs facing the table.

  Twice tonight, his mind told him, twice you’ve escaped them—and they could have seen you easily on both occasions if they had been watching for you. They don’t know you’re alive. But when they find out…

  He forced his thoughts away from the scene in his mind away from the horror; quickly he stood up and began to unload the box, placing the cans on a long shelf along the far side of the room.

  He began to think of women, of a girl named Joan, and of how much he had loved her…

  * * * *

  The world of Lewis Stillman was damp and lightless; it was narrow and its cold stone walls pressed in upon him as he moved. He had been walking for several hours; sometimes he would run, because he knew his leg muscles must be kept strong, but he was walking now, following the thin yellow beam of his hooded lantern. He was searching.

  Tonight, he thought, I might find another like myself. Surely, someone is down here; I’ll find someone if I keep searching. I must find someone!

  But he knew he would not. He knew he would find only chill emptiness ahead of him in the tunnels.

  For three long years he had been searching for another man or woman down here in this world under the city. For three years he had prowled the seven hundred miles of storm drains which threaded their way under the skin of Los Angeles like the veins in a giant’s body—and he had found nothing. Nothing.

  Even now, after all the days and nights of search, he could not really accept the fact that he was alone, that he was the last man alive in a city of seven million, that all the others were dead.

  He paused, resting his back against the cold stone. Some of them were moving over the street above his head. He listened to the sharp scuffling sounds on the pavement and swore bitterly.

  “Damn you,” said Lewis Stillman levelly. “Damn all of you!”

  * * * *

  Lewis Stillman was running down the long tunnels. Behind him a tide of midget shadows washed from wall to wall; high keening cries, doubled and tripled by echoes, rang in his ears. Claws reached for him; he felt panting breath, like hot smoke, on the back of his neck; his lungs were bursting, his entire body aflame.

  He looked down at his fast-pumping legs, doing their job with pistoned precision. He listened to the sharp slap of his heels against the floor of the tunnel—and he thought: I might die at any moment, but my legs will escape! They will run on down the endless drains and never be caught. They move so fast while my heavy awkward upper-body rocks and sways above them, slowing them down, tiring them—making them angry. How my legs must hate me! I must be clever and humor them, beg them to take me along to safety. How well they run, how sleek and fine!

  Then he felt himself coming apart. His legs were detaching themselves from his upper-body. He cried out in horror, flailing the air with his arms, beseeching them not to leave him behind. But the legs cruelly continued to unfasten themselves. In a cold surge of terror, Lewis Stillman felt himself tipping, falling toward the damp floor—while his legs raced on with a wild animal life of their own. He opened his mouth, high above the insane legs, and screamed.

  Ending the nightmare.

  He sat up stiffly in his cot, gasping, drenched in sweat. He drew in a long shuddering breath and reached for a cigarette. He lit it with a trembling hand.

  The nightmares were getting worse. He realized that his mind was rebelling as he slept, spilling forth the bottled-up fears of the day during the night hours.

  He thought once more about the beginning six years ago, about why he was still alive, the last of his kind. The alien ships had struck Earth suddenly, without warning. Their attack had been thorough and deadly. In a matter of hours the aliens had accomplished their clever mission—and the men and women of Earth were destroyed. A few survived, he was certain. He had never met any of them, but he was convinced they existed. Los Angeles was not the world, after all, and if he escaped so must have others around the globe. He’d been working alone in the drains when the alien ships appeared, finishing a special job for the construction company on B tunnel. He could still hear the weird sound of the mammoth ships and feel the intense heat of their passage.

  Hunger had forced him out and overnight he became a curiosity. The last man alive. For three years he was not harmed. He worked with them, taught them many things, and tried to win their confidence. But, eventually, certain ones came to hate him, to be jealous of his relationship with the others. Luckily he had been able to escape to the drains. That was three years ago and now they had forgotten him.

  His later excursions to the upper level of the city had been made under cover of darkness—and he never ventured out unless his food supply dwindled. Water was provided by rain during the wet-months—and by bottled liquids during the dry.

  He had built his one-room structure directly to the side of an overhead grating—not close enough to risk their seeing it, but close enough for light to seep in during the sunlight hours. He missed the warm feel of open sun on his body almost as much as he missed the companionship of others, but he could not think of risking himself above the drains by day.

  Sometimes he got insane thoughts. Sometimes, when the loneliness closed in like an immense fist and he could no longer stand the sound of his own voice, he would think of bringing one of them down with him, into the drains. One at a time, they could be handled. Then he’d remember their sharp savage eyes, their animal ferocity, and he would realize that the idea was impossible. If one of their kind disappeared, suddenly and without trace, others would certainly become suspicious, begin to search for him—and it would all be over.

  Lewis Stillman settled back into his pillow, pulling the blankets tight about his body. He closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the distant screams, pipings and reedy cries filtering down from the street above his head.

  Finally he slept.

  * * * *

  He spent the afternoon with paper women. He lingered over the pages of some yellowed fashion magazines, looking at all the beautifully photographed models in their fine clothes. All slim and enchanting, these page-women, with their cool enticing eyes and perfect smiles, all grace and softness and glitter and swirled cloth. He touched their images with gentle fingers, stroking the tawny paper hair, as though, by some magic formula, he might imbue them with life. It was easy to imagine that these women had never really lived at all—that they were simply painted, in microscopic detail, by sly artists to give the illusion of photos. He didn’t like to think about these women and how they died.

  That evening Lewis Stillman watched the moon, round and high and yellow in the night sky, and he thought of his father, and of the long hikes through the moonlit
Maine countryside, of hunting trips and warm campfires, of the Maine woods, rich and green in summer. He thought of his father’s hopes for his future and the words of that tall, gray-haired figure came back to him.

  “You’ll be a fine doctor, Lewis. Study and work hard and you’ll succeed. I know you will.”

  He remembered the long winter evenings of study at his father’s great mahogany desk, pouring over medical books and journals, taking notes, sifting and re-sifting facts. He remembered one set of books in particular—Erickson’s monumental three-volume text on surgery, richly bound and stamped in gold. He had always loved these books, above all others.

  What had gone wrong along the way? Somehow, the dream had faded, the bright goal vanished and was lost. After a year of pre-med at the University of Southern Cal, he had given up medicine; he had become discouraged and quit college to take a laborer’s job with a construction company. How ironic that this move should have saved his life! He’d wanted to work with his hands, to sweat and labor with the muscles of his body. He’d wanted to earn enough to marry Joan and then, later perhaps, he would have returned to finish his courses. It all seemed so far away now, his reason for quitting, for letting his father down.

  Now, at this moment, an overwhelming desire gripped him, a desire to pour over Erickson’s pages once again, to re-create, even for a brief moment, the comfort and happiness of his childhood.

  He’d seen a duplicate set on the second floor of Pickwick’s book store in Hollywood, in their used book department, and now he knew he must go after them, bring the books back with him to the drains. It was a dangerous and foolish desire, but he knew he would obey it. Despite the risk of death, he would go after the books tonight. Tonight.