by Francis Q
Index
The Painted Grave
The Horrible Toys
The Mermaid Mole
The Haunted Hoard
By the Light of the Lantern
The Empty House
Rescue from the Unknown
The Little Fellah
No answer
The Grey One
Clouded Crystal
Aunt Mag’s Cat
Seeing Rabbits
Death of a Critic
The Letter
Watchful Uncle
Time to die
Stone Cold
Fountain of Death
Devil’s Masquerade
Inhuman Humans
Portrait from Life
Unknown Ghost
Revenge in Time
The Pied Piper
Index
The Painted Grave
The Horrible Toys
The Mermaid Mole
The Haunted Hoard
By the Light of the Lantern
The Empty House
Rescue from the Unknown
No answer
The Grey One
Clouded Crystal
Aunt Mag’s Cat
Seeing Rabbits
Death of a Critic
The Letter
Watchful Uncle
Time to die
Stone Cold
Fountain of Death
Devil’s Masquerade
Inhuman Humans
Portrait from Life
Unknown Ghost
Revenge in Time
The Pied Piper
Francis Q.
BEYOND THIS
A PARANORMAL THRILLER ANTHOLOGY
2018
COPYRIGHT © 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or medium, including audio recording or other electronic methods, without written permission of the author, except in the case of short citations included in critical reviews and for some other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This novel is the work of fantasy. Every reference to people, places and facts actually happened is purely coincidental.
Dark, dreamlike, dreadful.
Tales born from a deep obscurity, from the human soul and its infinite folds, from the other side of reality.
And from the desire to go beyond what we know and surrounds us, beyond the strict and narrowing rationality, beyond what our eyes can see and ours mind can conceive.
Beyond all this.
Have a good read.
The Painted Grave
JOHN DRAKE SHUDDERED as he stared at the picture. He had painted a masterpiece… but a masterpiece of horror!
Dead white eyes it had, and the fangs of a jungle beast. And now it seemed almost alive as it returned his stare from the lighted canvas. It had been human once, and was portrayed standing next to a yawning grave, from which a spade caked with damp earth projected. Few men possessed the courage to imagine such a thing, much less depict it on canvas. But John Drake was a strange person. Possessed of an artistic genius which lent life to his creations, he was obsessed with an urge to paint only nameless horrors. And in this picture, he had reached the climax of his career.
It lived!
One could almost smell the damp earth from the open grave.
And as to the awful creature that stood there… what was it?
Ghoul? Zombie? Drake himself wasn’t sure. He looked again… and a wave of dizziness swept over him. He couldn’t break away… the thing’s glaring eyes seemed to grip him in a hypnotic spell! It took determination to turn his eyes away, but he finally did it. Whew! No doubt about it, he had done his work well. He had surpassed himself; had breathed weird life into the creation on the canvas. Now he had to get away from it; away from that sinister, yawning grave. With a weary shrug, he crossed the room to a mirror and stood regarding himself in the shadows. He saw his face, sensitive and careworn… and behind him, the reflection of the awful picture he had painted. But what was making the room so dark? As though someone had pulled down all the blinds, shutting out the moonlight? Suddenly the mirror showed him something else. A shadow, weaving about close to the canvas! But how… how could the picture cast a moving shadow? Drake’s scalp began to tingle. Now his ears sensed footsteps behind him, crossing the floor with a dull, insistent tread. It couldn’t be! He could find out easily enough, simply by turning. Why couldn’t he turn? What was holding him rooted to the floor in the grip of a nameless terror? He started to scream even before he saw the face. For the thing was standing there, staring at him with glassy eyes, its fangs bared and drooling. Then, with an inhuman screech… it leaped! Drake fought it with all his strength… Sweat pouring off his face, his neck cords swelling, he struggled frenziedly against claws that raked and tore. But it was too strong for him! Shrieking and struggling, he felt himself being dragged toward the canvas… toward a yawning, painted grave that was too realistic!
The strange mystery of John Drake’s disappearance was never solved. It created a sensation for awhile, but was at last forgotten. The police investigated, but finally were forced to admit defeat, closing their files on the great painter. Quite a crowd attended the auctioning off of his canvases, and the highest price was paid for the great masterpiece he had completed just before he dropped from sight, never to be heard of again. It was a graveyard scene, amazingly lifelike in its every detail. There was nothing in the picture… except for a filled grave, with the earth around it trampled as if a struggle had taken place.
The Horrible Toys
JANE MOVED ACROSS THE CREAKING FLOORBOARDS of the dark old house, her pigtails quivering. “Don’t make so much noise, Jimmy!” she breathed.
“I’m not scared!” Jimmy flared, glowering at his sister.
“There’s a big pile of bottles in the cellar! Mr. Jenkins will pay us a penny a piece for soda pop bottles!”
“Mrs. Meek was a witch!” Jane complained bitterly. “She didn’t die like people do. She comes back here and sits in the window! Freddy Wilson saw her!”
“Aw, don’t be a scary cat!” Jimmy flung out. “Nobody lives here now!”
“Mrs. Meek does! Jimmy, I’m afraid of her!” Jane was big for her age, but now she felt very small. She shivered in dread alarm. “She comes back! She does!”
Jimmy started to reply; then froze. “Jane, look! Its a rag doll! Right over there… by the wall!” Jane let out a gasp. The doll sat in the shadows, with its back to the wall. It was covered with cobwebs. It had a funny grinning face, and it wore a calico dress. Sawdust was spilling out of it. Then Jimmy saw the fire engine. All rusty it was, as though it had traveled to its last fire and was now ready for the junkpile. The children didn’t hesitate. They went down on their knees in the dust and picked the toys up, their eyes glowing.
“Golly, Jimmy, you couldn’t buy a doll like this!” Jane enthused. “Look how its eyes shine! Like it was alive!”
“Jeepers!” Jimmy muttered. “I like old fire engines! This one’s all smoked up an’ everything!”
Jane let out another gasp. She was feeling the tug now. The doll was twisting, tugging at her, as though it wanted to go somewhere. It wasn’t tugging with its arms. Oh, no. It was just a limp rag doll.
But Jane could feel the tug. It was like holding a big magnet that tugged, pulled! The fire engine was tugging too. At Jimmy! The children followed the tugging. They didn’t want to, really. But they were scared not to.
Throw the toys down, children, get rid of them! Please, children, hurry! Do you want to die? The witch comes back and sits in the window! If you don’t want to meet her, stay away from that closet!
The closet’s mouldy old door was a little ajar, as though it had a birthday-present surprise
for Jimmy and Jane. The toys seemed to want to enter the closet, taking the children with them! It was Jane who threw the door wide. She didn’t want to, but she had to obey the doll.
“Jimmy, I’m scared! Jimmy, don’t run! Oh, Jimmy!”
Mrs. Meek stood just inside the closet, with a sickly yellow light flooding down over her. Death hadn’t changed Mrs. Meek much. She had been scrawny and hideous in life and she was hideous now. From her thin, shriveled face to her turned-in toes she was wrapped in cobwebs, which clung to her like a shroud! In Mrs. Meek’s hideous, shrunken face two eyes rolled a little, to fasten on the children. But as her withered skeleton-thin arms went out to make sure the children would not escape, the tugging stopped. Jimmy hurled the fire engine straight at Mrs. Meek! There was an awful, splintering crash. Mrs. Meek fell back into the closet.
Dust swirled up about her and she began to crumble. But the children didn’t wait to see the last of Mrs. Meek! They turned and ran screaming from the house and out into the warm, bright sunlight!
The Mermaid Mole
TOM JENSON MIGHT HAVE BEEN GOOD-LOOKING, except for the strange and disfiguring birthmark which crossed his right cheek. It was a prominent mole, which, oddly enough, was shaped in the exact form of a mermaid. He was sensitive about it, and resented the vicious derision which Steve Miller constantly threw his way. Finally, one morning, when Miller attempted to fasten the nickname “Mermaid” upon his victim in front of a large group of people, he learned that he had gone too far. Jenson lost his temper… and Miller absorbed a savage beating! Steve Miller never forgave his conqueror, and his hatred for him grew. The one thing he wanted was to get revenge. He hit on a scheme to bring him his revenge and a goodly sum of money. It required stealing Jenson’s elaborately initialed hunting knife, which he managed. Then, one night, he stole to the cottage where Rick Andrews, an elderly and wealthy recluse, dwelt alone.
There was none to hear the old man’s shriek… none to observe the flight of the thief and murderer. Tom Jenson stood trial for the crime. To the evidence of his knife was added Miller’s testimony that he had seen him stealing away from the old Andrews home, and that he had fled upon being hailed. The proof seemed clear… he was convicted and sentenced to hang. It took two policemen to hold him as he tried to spring upon Miller. As he was being led away, he turned, his face a mask of hate; his mermaid mole livid.
“You’re not getting away with this, Miller!” he choked. “No matter what happens… I’m going to get you for it!” Jenson’s execution was a month off. For Miller, this spelled thirty days of sheer terror. True, his enemy was a condemned prisoner… but a man moved by a giant hatred. Supposing he escaped? The panic-laden hours crawled by slowly, but finally the fatal day dawned. Jenson was to be hanged at eight that evening, and as Miller watched the clock tick away the final moments, a growing exultation seized hint.
Seven… seven-thirty… seven-fifty… eight ’o’clock!
An exuberant yell burst from Miller’s lips. He was free at last… free of danger, free of the man he hated, free to spend the money he had stolen from old Andrews! He stamped joyously about the bedroom of the large hotel in which he had installed himself for safety until Jenson was executed, then paused. What was that knocking at the door? He threw the door open, squinting into the shadowy corridor. He couldn’t make out the features of the man who stood in the gloom. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “No!” he shrieked.
“Keep out!” His voice trailed off in a gurgle as steel-like fingers fastened about his throat in a deathlike grip. Next day, the papers carried two big news stories. One told of the execution of Tom Jenson, which had taken place on schedule at eight o’clock the night before. The other reported the mysterious death, at eight-fifteen, of Steve Miller. His murderer, the reports said, had with strange facility eluded a group of hotel guests who had been drawn to the scene by the victim’s screams. They weren’t able to provide the police with a detailed description of the man, but all agreed on one point. There was something strange about him… a strange and disfiguring birthmark whirls crossed his right cheek. The light had fallen upon it as he fled. It was a prominent mole, shaped in the form of a mermaid.
The Haunted Hoard
CAN A HOUSE BE HAUNTED? Really haunted? Jimmy Severn didn’t believe it… but he was afraid of the gloomy, deserted old Denning mansion. Its reputation had been a bad one since old William Denning had been slain thirty years ago… throttled for the golden hoard he was supposed to have hidden. It had never come to light, but since then, there were whispers of mysterious happenings at the abandoned house. Strange lights, eerie shadows… and twice, the bodies of men found, with nothing to indicate how they had met death. It was enough to make anyone give the Denning mansion a wide berth.
Why, then, was Jimmy approaching it alone? The answer was a simple one. His widowed mother was poor, and they faced the loss of their home unless money could be gotten from someplace. And while people disagreed about whether or not old Denning’s house was haunted, they all seemed pretty sure that somewhere within it was gold aplenty! Jimmy entered the creaking door which hung crazily on its wrecked hinges, and made his way into a cobweb-festooned room.
The dust of years lay thick on heavy paneling. Perhaps what he sought lay behind it? He had brought a crowbar with him, and the shriek of drawn nails gave him confidence. True, he hadn’t found any money yet, but anyway, there were no ghosts around! Despite his new-found bravery, his heart leaped into his mouth as behind him he heard the unmistakable sound of a man clearing his throat! Whirling in gasping fright, he found himself face to face with a strange man… elderly and a bit old-fashioned in appearance, with dark, heavy brows and a mane of snow-white hair. His face bore an expression of terrible rage, but it faded before Jimmy’s confused explanations that he hadn’t meant to trespass, but had thought that nobody owned the old house.
Fingering his throat, the old man finally smiled. “Reckon I won’t be too hard on you,” he said. “But tell me… why were you tearin’ up the walls?” Jimmy told him all about how he needed the money, and for what. The old man seemed lost in thought as he again fingered his throat, absently… it seemed to be a habit with him. Then he said, “If you found the money and took it, it would be stealin’… but at least you had an honest need for it, which is more’n you can say for a lot of others! Now, I knew old William Denning well… and he wouldn’t have wanted you to suffer for this. Wait here… I got an idea!”
Leaving the room, he returned… with a bag full of gold coins!
“Here,” he said, smiling. “It’s some money I had, and it’ll probably serve you as well! Never mind thankin’ me… I don’t really need it! Just be off with you… and don’t never come back here again!” Jimmy never went back to the old Denning mansion again… but he never forgot his benefactor. Some weeks later, Jimmy paid a visit to the town library, where he found Miss Scruggins, the librarian, excited over having found the last picture for the history of the town’s notables that she was writing. Happily, she displayed it. It was a picture of William Denning, murdered master of the “haunted” house. He was elderly and a bit old-fashioned in appearance, with dark, heavy brows and a mane of snow-white hair. The room rocked about Jimmy as he recollected a man who had fingered his throat… a strangled man! And then the memory of a great kindness came to him… and once again the room was bright and sunny!
By the Light of the Lantern
WHAT A SPOT TO BE IN! Almost midnight, with the rain falling as he trudged down a lonely street in a strange town, lost! Martin Hall regretted the impulse that had made him stop off for a visit to an old school chum. This was the street… but it was too dark to make out the numbers of the houses! Martin stopped before one of them. It wasn’t a cheerful looking place, with its windows staring out like blind, ominous eyes… but maybe he could ask directions here! There was a long wait until the door creaked open. He could dimly perceive a man and woman on the threshold. dressed in strange, outmoded clothing.
&nbs
p; “Could you direct me to Henry Travers’ house?” he asked. He was amazed to see them whisper together, but finally the man answered. “Mr. Travers lives here,” he said, “but he won’t be back for an hour. Why don’t you come in and wait for him?” It was good to get in out of the howling rain.
Martin was amazed to find that the house was lit by a single old oil lantern. By its fitful gleam he studied his host and hostess, wondering who they were. They were a sinister pair… the man with fierce, staring eyes and the woman with a lean, catlike face. Finally the man spoke. “We’re glad you happened by,” he said, his voice hollow and far away.
“There… there’s a window down the cellar that we can’t get closed, and the rain’s coming in. Could you… come down and help us close it?” Martin wanted to say that he wouldn’t go down into that cellar for anything in the world… but before he knew it, the man had seized the lantern, and they were on their way. The cellar was a ghostly nightmare of darkness.
“W-where’s the window?” he stammered, but only a mocking cackle answered him. His host handed the old lantern to him… carefully, as if he were almost afraid of it… and suddenly Martin saw that he stood at the edge of a deep pit. And he saw the woman moving close, a long knife in her hand. A shriek of fear burst from his lips. He had no weapon to save him, but he hurled the lantern. There was a ghastly, terror-stricken cry as it burst in their faces, and suddenly… they disappeared! Martin never knew how he got out of the cellar… how he fled from the old house. There was a gap in his consciousness… all he knew was that suddenly it seemed to be morning, and he was wandering past the identical spot.
But there was no house there! All that was left were blackened old foundations, as if a terrible fire had occurred there many years ago. A passerby supplied directions to the home of his friend, Henry Travers, and there, as if casually, Martin asked the story of the old ruins. And he learned that a half-century ago, a man and woman had dwelled in the house that stood there… and that - according to local legend - people who came to call on them were never heard of again! They would lure them to the cellar, where they would murder and then bury them. The story had come out when their house was destroyed by fire. In the act of burying a victim, they had dropped the lantern, and were destroyed in the quick-spreading flames!
