by Francis Q
The Empty House
THE LOBBY OF THE PIONEER HOTEL in Red Gulch was a crowded spot, jammed with people who were vainly trying to register. But there wasn’t a room to be had… it was Rodeo Week, and every lodging place in town was filled to capacity.
But even if rooms were available, that wouldn’t have helped Silk, Lefty and Pete, three crooked characters who had drifted into town looking for easy pickings. They were dead broke… and in search of a victim! And now, they figured, they had found one. For the man speaking to the room clerk was none other than Slim McKee, a noted prospector, just in from one of his periodic gold hunts. Slim was known for his luck in never returning empty-handed… and this time was no exception, judging from the bulk in his waist which spelled an overflowing money-belt.
But he was also known as a mighty fighter and dead shot, which was the reason why Silk, Lefty and Pete were laying their plans carefully!
“He’s a friendly cuss who trusts everybody,” whispered Silk, “and he’s gotta find some place to sleep! I been thinkin’ about that old empty house just outside o’ town… the one these local yokels claim is haunted! We’ll tell ’im we’re gonna bunk there, an’ invite ’im to come along. We talk about a ghost there, see, an’ laugh at it like it’s a big joke! But when we get ’im in there, we make with the spooky stuff! The innocent yap’ll be scared so silly that we can take ’im off guard, slip ’im the business an’ make off with his gold!” The plot seemed to work like a charm. Slim McKee was charmed by their friendly offer and agreed that talk of ghosts must be purely foolish local gossip… and so off they went to the haunted house! It was already dark when they reached it, and they couldn’t deny that it was an eerie-looking structure.
Unconsciously, they lowered their voices as they entered the old and abandoned place. Inside was dust and ruination… together with an odd and oppressive atmosphere which cast a strange terror… in all except Slim McKee! “Shore am sleepy, boys,” he announced, as he folded his coat into a pillow. “Guess I’ll hit the hay!”
Silk nudged Lefty. “Time to start in with the business!” be whispered. “Give out with some good sound effects… spook variety!” He grinned approvingly as a weird clanking filled the air. “Attaboy,” he muttered. Lefty gulped, his face startled. “I didn’t make that noise,” he breathed. “It came from upstairs! Maybe… maybe it was Pete!”
Silk was about to speak, but stopped.
Lefty’s face… why was it that unearthly color? What gave it that corpse-like blue tint? It was a ghostly light that was bathing the room… where did it come from? His eyes were playing him tricks, that was it… better get on with the business of scaring Slim McKee until he was ‘ripe for plucking! “Okay,” he muttered, licking his lips. “Here goes with a genuine phantom groan!”
He opened his mouth… then stopped suddenly.
“AHHH-EEEEEE!”
It had come from upstairs, no doubt about it… a long drawn out, wailing moan like an echo from an old tomb!
“It must be Pete… it couldn’t be anybody else! “Pete!” Silk found himself shouting hoarsely. “Pete!”
In answer came a high-pitched, gurgling scream of horrible fright. Past the doorway ran Pete, his face a mask of pale horror. He didn’t bother opening the sagging old front door… he crashed right through it! A choked gasp, a whirr of movement … that was Lefty following him. Abandoned by his accomplices, Silk found every limb atremble as he edged fearfully into the hall. Almost against his will, he felt his glance being drawn to the staircase. Then his eyes widened and his mouth opened to shriek… for on the stairs stood the thing! Now it was coming toward him… silently … on and on!
He tried to run, but he was paralyzed. Scream after scream burst from his lips, but then the creature was upon him… and the screaming stopped! Disgustedly, Slim McKee left the oId house. He’d had enough! Hard enough for a man to get his sleep without all those strange noise.
“It must’ve been those guys, tryin’ to make me believe that place was really haunted!” he grumbled. “Huh… as if I’d ever fall for any of that stuff!”.
Rescue from the Unknown
AT BARRON’S CONTINENTAL CIRCUS, it was time for “Magic on the Flying Trapeze”… starring Lily and George LeBecque!
High above the arena, pert, dark Lily LeBecque stood poised on the swinging trapeze. Suddenly, as the cymbals clanged and the spectators stifled cries of fear, she launched into a plunging dive, hurtling down from her perch at headlong speed towards the deceptively soft-looking turf below! A hundred feet away, smoothly, almost effortlessly, her husband, George, slipped his trapeze into position. For a moment, it appeared as though Lily would shoot by… to a certain death!
And then… strong arms reached forward and plucked Lily out of mid-air… to safety! The tension broken, the spectators cheered, whistled, stamped their feet, left the arena singing the praises of the flying LeBecques. “What a pair… what teamwork! She seems to know every move he’s making… every second! No wonder she can go through the entire act with a blindfold around her eyes!”
“And the way he gets to her and breaks her dive at the last moment! Those two are more than a team… they’re really magic!”
George and Lily LeBecque were more than a team! George knew every move that Lily was going to make! He knew her every thought. And Lily knew, to the split second, when George’s lean, powerful fingers would grasp her own, in mid-air, and break her dive! She knew… always… what George was thinking and doing. She knew when things were going well… and when there was danger. The LeBecques never applied a name to the sixth sense that was the lifeline of their existence. They accepted it, an unknown force that bound them closely together and held them safe. The night that George’s trapeze snapped in two, Lily was crouched on her perch, muscles tensed to spring off into space in her final dive. At the last instant, it was as though an arm had reached out of space and held her back, halted her headlong leap.
Her heart skipped a beat. She knew, suddenly, that this time George would not be there to catch her up and break her fall! George would not be there… she knew! Lily LeBecque tottered, slipped. In a last despairing effort, she hooked an elbow around the crossbar, saved herself from a crushing fall. George fell instead, as the broken trapeze gave way. At the hospital, they told Lily that George’s back was broken.
Yes, he had a chance to live… if he would fight for it!
Lily answered simply: “Of course, we will fight!” George said only, “I will live to see the LeBecques on the high trapeze again… soon!”
To Lily, he insisted, “In the meantime the act must go on! You will get a new partner until I return! I will direct you!”
Reluctantly, Lily agreed. The week’s practice went swiftly.
Each morning, George issued instructions from his hospital bed. “Practice the dives most of all!” he would insist, “and the timing… the timing!”
Each evening, when Lily came back to the hospital, he seemed to know how the session had gone. When the practice went well, he was well. As the new team improved, George seemed to improve, too. It was as though George could see the practice sessions from the hospital bed. It was as though George was living for Lily’s reappearance in the arena! In a week the new partner was as ready as he would ever be. He knew the motions. But he did not know, he could never know, his partner’s every move, every thought, as George LeBecque had known them! Lily LeBecque, as she waited for her cue on the night of the big show, felt cold. For the first time in her career, she was afraid! That night, as he lay on his hospital bed, in more pain than he would admit, George LeBecque saw Lily’s performance unfold before his eyes like a movie on a screen. In his mind’s eye, he saw her swing out for the final dive, the great plunge towards the waiting, swinging arms of her partner 100 feet below…
In the arena, as Lily, blindfold over her eyes, spangled costume gleaming in the light, swung out for her final dive, she could not see… or feel… that her new partner, nervous, had slipped, misse
d his timing. But she could hear the gasps, the cries of warning from the crowd: “He’s not going to remit her in time! He can’t catch her!” Lily LeBecque tore the blindfold from her eyes. Down sit, hurtled, heading towards… her death!
In the crowd, there were few who could agree on what happened next. Some said Lily just “stopped”… in midair!
Others insisted she soared suddenly up, like a slim, shining bird taking off in flight. But everyone saw her twist sharply over the arena, in a last, despairing effort, it seemed. And everyone saw her shoot up… up… up! With their own eyes, they saw her reach the nearest overhead trapeze! Then the tumult broke over the arena. A thousand straining voices shouted: “Lily LeBecque is safe! She’s been saved… saved!
It’s a miracle… a miracle… a miracle!” No one but Lily herself saw the dark, shadowy figure that had appeared in the air, out of nowhere… out of the unknown! The dark, shadowy figure that caught her, broke her fall, lifted her to the safety of the high trapeze. When the blood flowed back to her face, when once again she could lift her head, Lily looked about.
The dark figure had gone. In the length and breadth of the huge arena, no one else had seen it. But Lily LeBecque knew that he had been there. For an instant, her eyes turned to the clock at the far end of the arena. The dial registered 8:02 P.M.
Almost against her will, the old, the unknown force drew Lily to the hospital. Something told her what she would find. Her husband, George, was… dead! In his hand, as she looked upon him for the last time, he held… a single, gleaming spangle from an aerialist’s costume! The hospital record listed the time of his death… 8:02 P.M.! Had George LeBecque’s spirit lived on just long enough to save his wife?
Had the flying LeBecques, in death as in life, remained the “perfect team”? Again, as though prompted by a voice from the timeless spaces of the unknown… silent, haunted Lily LeBecque knew the answer to these questions.
The Little Fellah
I DON’T KNOW EXACTLY HOW TO BEGIN this story. Sure, I’m supposed to be a newspaper man… me, Johnny Ransome, but I never covered an item like this one. I’m afraid you won’t believe me. But this is the way it happened, cross my heart! You see, I had the farmhouse in the country, a pair of twins, aged four, and this novel I wanted to write. It was a typical morning at our place. The twins were at breakfast, batting it back and forth between them. I sipped my coffee… which tasted like castor oil… and watched, my thoughts far from page three of the novel, which was as much as I’d written. The house was a mess, the dishes were stacked high in the sink, the front yard was a jungle, unfit for the kids to play. It was too much. I was a beaten man… and then the buzzer on the front door suddenly sounded! Looking back, I can see India; she was a fine figure of a woman, tall and strong and lovely. She came from the Indies, and I hired her before she could ask me for a job. To tell the truth, she didn’t exactly ask for a job. She knew I needed her… and she was there. When I asked her how she knew, she gave me a curious answer: “The Little Fellah told me. He takes care o’ me… an’ now he’s takin’ care o’ you, too!” I only half heard her at the time. But I was to hear her answer again many times, later. First… there was lunchtime. I’d put in a good morning’s work on the book, and came out of the house to find the table net for lunch on the front lawn.
The twins were just finishing theirs, almost meekly. The house was spotless, and the yard was cleaned of rubbish as though by a giant hand! India said: “I told you. It’s the Little Fellah… he’s helpin’ me. An’ he’s got the big one with him this time … Big Bull. They always help folks they like … like me… an’ you…”
It was weird. No, it was funny. It had to be.
I laughed, and I sounded like my voice was changing. I waved weakly towards the doors of the barn, trying to be funny. I’d never been able to budge those doors to see what was inside. They were stuck fast. “Maybe your… I mean our… friends could open those barn doors while they’re at it,” I cackled. “I’d like to see what’s inside!” There was a moment in which nothing happened, but only a moment. Then, slowly, the heavy doors began to swing open! They creaked, they groaned, but they moved! And they moved of their own accord! There was nothing… no one … within fifty yards of those doors! That is, no one that I could see. “See? It’s the Little Fellah again,” India whispered. “He heard… an’ he an’ Big Bull come to help you!” I got up and stumbled towards the barn. I strained and tugged. but I couldn’t move those doors. Without another word, I went back to the house.
India brought my coffee. It was strong, and I needed it. We didn’t speak. I didn’t believe it, I kept telling myself. That was before Bobby tumbled into the cistern on Ed Collins’ place next door.
It was the next afternoon. Ellen came running to get me, shouting for help through her tears. The kids had been playing and couldn’t see the overgrown, unused cistern and… as I ran, I prayed Bobby was still alive. When I got to the well, India was already there. And on the ground… near the cistern… Bobby! Spent. Red-eyed. But alive! And smiling! I caught him up in my arms… heard a faint murmur… “The little Fellah!”
I looked at India. Her lips framed the words. But then she went on. Quickly. She had found Bobby as I did, bruised but unhurt, by the side of the well. All the water had been pressed from his lungs. Her voice dropped. “Someone climbed down that narrow cistern after the boy. An’ someone lifted him up!” I knelt by the mouth of the well.
Room for a child’s body… yes. But a man’s… no.
The edges of the pipe were torn away, as by a giant hand. I checked the words, but the thought remained. The Little Fellah… Big Bull… I checked the thought fast. When I got to my feet, Ed Collins was with us. He was a big guy… big… and mean. In the crook of his arm, he cradled a sawed-off shotgun. And he asked no questions. His idea… we get off his property… fast! No, he’d be blasted if he’d cap the top of the cistern! I could bloody well keep my brats chained up! And if we didn’t start to git in a hurry… he was gonna blast usI That was when I hit him. My first punch smashed his shotgun down against his back ribs. My second… to the jaw… rolled him over in the scrub near the cistern. He cursed, threatening a terrible revenge against what I loved most… my children. But he didn’t get up… not ’till after we’d gone. I couldn’t be bothered with Collins for the next few days. One thing bothered me, though… two things, The Little Fellah… and Big Bull! I couldn’t’ get them out of my mind. Could you, in my boots? When I finished the first chapter, I took it down to town. The publisher liked it.
Coming back to the house that night. I could see the next chapter… just the way I wanted it. The house was dark. My house key was in my hand, but I didn’t need it. The door was ajar. The unnatural silence pounded in my ears. In the hall, I stumbled. At my feet there was… there was… something… soft. And moaning, low. I flicked the light switch. At my feet…. it was India, lying still, hurt! She stirred, moaned again, whispered: “Collins… he… he came for the children. But… they… safe… we drove him off! Go after him… we’ll be alright”.
Yes. I heard her. She said we! I ran out of the house and across the lawn. I found myself following a trail of bloodstains to Collins’ place, and at the end of the trail, I found… Collins. He lay face down in a clump of bushes, dead. The right side of his face had been bashed, flat by a boulder, maybe… or a great fist. Then I saw the knife imbedded in his neck. It was the smallest I had ever seen, about the size of my index finger. A toy knife… for a toy man!
And a head crushed… by a great fist! I could hear India’s voice: “The Little Fellah… he takes care o’ me! Him an’ Big Bull!” But I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You don’t believe me! Or do you?
No answer
THERE WAS NO CONSCIENCE in Vinny’s eyes. Only fear. He sat on the edge of the narrow iron bed in the cheap hotel room and tried to concentrate on a game of solitaire. But the cards stuck to his sweaty fingers and their colors and numbers were blurs before his fear-filled e
yes. Vinny had just killed a man. “I did it on orders.” he kept telling himself.
“It was an order from the boss. Nobody tells the boss ‘no’. So what? So I killed him! There hadda be a first time!” For Vinny, the first time had been a nightmare. He kept hearing that voice, strangely shrill and high-pitched, the squeak of a cornered rat. “Don’t shoot, Vinny! Don’t shoot… please… please… plea…!” The voice had cracked on the last word and Vinny had gritted his teeth as it squeaked off into silence.
But Vinny was a superstitious guy, and a superstitious guy doesn’t do things like this easily. Instead, he keeps hearing that shrill voice, over and over, pleading for mercy! The hotel room grew darker and darker. Only the flash of an electric sign outside threw a rhythmic light into the room. And still Vinny sat, the fear within him growing… spreading… widening. And then the phone rang.
“Yeah?” he said, into the speaker. “Yeah?” His eyes grew glazed and his mouth widened as though for more air. Although the room was stuffy and hot, a thin, knife-blade chill cut along his spine, until it reached the nape of his neck. That voice. That high-pitched voice, pleading, begging, “Don’t shoot, Vinny! Don’t shoot… please… please… please…”
The pounding of Vinny’s heart increased, so that his whole body shook with fear. And then, his heart seemed to explode with the fear, and the crash shook him, lifeless, to the floor…
