by Francis Q
They broke into the room the next day. A couple of cops and the desk clerk. They found Vinny, his body slumped on the floor, his right hand clutching the phone, which was still off the hook. One of the cops turned him over with the toe of his heavy shoe. “Saves us the trouble of makin’ an arrest,” he remarked.
“Right,”raid the other cop, yawning. But the desk clerk stared at the body and his eyes were full of fear. Fear and incomprehension. “The phone!” he said. “He’s got it off the hook! He’s been talkin’ to somebody”
“So?” smiled one of the cops. “You… you don’t understand.
There has been no call, to or from this room, through my switchboard!”
The Grey One
FRANK CLINTON WAS A BIG-GAME HUNTER. He was a practical, hardbitten man whose only religion was his rifle… whose only craving in life was to meet and beat the most dangerous game that could come under his sights. That was why the story of “The Gray One” stirred the old fever of the hunt in his blood. It was a wolf that had terrorized a small French village… but what a wolf! Twice as large as any normal animal, the story went. It attacked humans, rather than beasts, and had already slain a dozen… and men feared to track it down! When Clinton arrived, and made known the fact that he wanted the huge creature’s head for his collection, he sensed a strange reaction among the villagers.
There was a light of terror in their eyes, and a few crossed themselves. And then it finally came out, in the stumbling speech of a frightened old man. “He… he’s a creature of Satan, the Evil One! Not an ordinary wolf… else why does he attack only humans? No ordinary weapon can kill him… because the Gray One is a werewolf!” Clinton tried to laugh’ off the impossible story, to explain that there were no such things as werewolves, that superstition was mere imagination. But he soon saw that it didn’t work, and realized that if he attempted to buck the villagers’ beliefs, it was going to be impossible to obtain a guide to the animal’s stamping-grounds. But what beliefs they were! The Gray One, they insisted, had formerly been a man… and now, as a werewolf, was so deadly that no local inhabitant dared hunt him. And regular bullets would do no good… it would have to be a silver bullet, blessed by a holy man… the only thing that could kill this devil’s beast, and restore it to its original form!
So, laughing within himself, Frank Clinton acceded. It took the bravest villager to guide Clinton to the outlying spot where the giant wolf had made its kills. Once there, he fled back to the safety of the town, leaving the big-game hunter to the perils of oncoming night… the time when the werewolf stalked! There was something in the lonely hush and gloom which oppressed Clinton, filling him with an odd foreboding. Could this be fear, this strange sensation which gripped him? Nonsense… he had unflinchingly faced the world’s deadliest animals! Besides, there was nothing around that… what was that? The crackle of a twig… and suddenly he saw it! Good Heavens, it… it couldn’t be! A gigantic, slavering creature like nothing living, with death written plain on its gleaming fangs… a mad beast which moved in a diabolical reflected glow of its own! For the first time, Frank Clinton knew stark terror, a terror which hypnotized him, rooted him to the spot as the huge animal crept gloatingly towards him. Nearer… nearer… it was almost upon him now!
It was some desperate inner sense of self-preservation which finally saved him at the last moment, and sent the silver bullet crashing squarely into the brain of the Gray One!
There it was at his feet, dead. Only now could Clinton shake off the strange, terrifying sensation that had numbed him.
He must have been crazy! Just a big wolf, that was all. And he must have imagined that glow he thought had surrounded it, because it was gone now. But the beast’s head… what a trophy, what a prize to talk about! Carefully he severed it, placed it in a box he had brought along for just that purpose. Werewolves… silver bullets… what nonsense!
In the final analysis, it had been his expert marksmanship which had felled the animal. And so Frank Clinton returned to his inn, to a much-needed sleep. He was entirely refreshed when he awoke the next morning, and eager to have another look at the great trophy which he had bagged.
Fingers trembling with happy anticipation, he opened the box, peered within it… and then reeled back, a choked cry in his throat and eyes bulging with an awful horror. Within the box lay a human head.
Clouded Crystal
HE SAT OPPOSITE THE FORTUNE TELLER, a lazy sneer of disbelief on his face. “Whaddaya see, madam?” he asked sarcastically. “Nothing good,” she answered slowly. “I see only black. Black and evil! You think to do something evil… something terrible! I tell you do not do this thing or something evil will come to you!” His sneer became more pronounced. “That’s fine,” he said shortly. “What else do you know?” The dark-skinned woman did not answer. She stared into the crystal ball, and on her face was a look of horror.
“Do not do this thing!” she said again. This time, the man laughed aloud. “Oh, no?” he drawled. “Stop me… if you can!” The fortune teller was no match for the man. His hands went about her throat like two steel bands that grew tighter… and tighter… and tighter… It was not a difficult safe to open. The man found it behind a pair of gaudy drapes.
“Not bad,” he congratulated himself. “Not a bad haul at all!
Wonder if I oughta take that crystal ball with me!” That was his idea of a joke. He gathered the money from the safe and thought about taking her earrings… but there was something about her face, her dead face so dark and foreboding, that stopped his hands. He stepped out into the street and looked carefully about him. Was there anyone around? Had anyone seen him? No, the street was empty and he was quite safe… quite… safe…
A quick backward glance, and he stepped off the curb. “This getaway is a cinch!” he said. “It’s a… no! Stop!”
It had come from nowhere. A black truck, large and shapeless in its speed, from nowhere! And it struck him down in the gutter, in front of the fortune teller’s window.
Money spilled from his pocket, but he did not know it. And the truck sped on, as though its driver had neither seen nor heard the man who lay dead in the street.
But on the face of the fortune teller, a change took place.
Her mouth, set so tightly, softened… softened and relaxed… until it formed a wise and satisfied smile. And the crystal ball gleamed and sparkled as though it were… alive!
Aunt Mag’s Cat
AUNT MAG LIVED IN A SHUTTERED OLD HOUSE with no companion but a huge black cat. Some folks muttered she was wealthy, and others whispered she was a witch. And since witches used to be blamed for everything, it’s easy to see how Otie Simmons began to suspect Aunt Mag. His crops were flattened by hail, his cow went dry, and foxes ran off with his chickens… and it didn’t take Otie long to figure why!
How else could Aunt Mag get all that money she was said to have… unless the devil himself paid her for hexing honest people?
Brooding, Otie decided to kill the witch… and steal her miserly hoard to pay for the damage she had caused! Late one night, rifle in hand, Otie prowled through the woods toward Aunt Mag’s house. He sneaked up to the window… dreading what would happen to him if he failed to kill the witch. There she was, sitting with the black cat on her lap… and it was now or never! Trembling, Otie raised the rifle and fired. As Aunt Hag slumped in her chair, her dress bloodstained, the cat leaped yowling into the shadows.
Otie was nervous about the cat. Everyone knew that a spirit will rise if a cat leaps over the corpse… and Otie didn’t want a witch’s ghost haunting him. But killing the cat wasn’t as important as finding Aunt Mag’s hoard. Otie searched… from the shadowed room where the old woman sagged in the chair, to the attic… muffled in a thick shroud of dust. It was here he finally found something… a pool of blood. Who else but a witch could die like that… her body downstairs, and her blood glistening on the attic floor? Terrified, Otie fled from the house.
Next day, everyone was talking about the horrible thing that ha
d happened to Aunt Mag… and the whole town turned up at her house. “I’ve got to go, too!” Otie mumbled to himself.
“If I’m the only one who stays away… they’ll know it was me!” That evening, Otie stood in Aunt Mag’s bedroom with a group of silent neighbors. Suddenly… he stared nervously as Aunt Mag’s black cat padded toward the bed… its green eyes fixed on Otie!
“It’s just a cat,” Otie muttered, shivering. “What if it does jump over?” And that’s just what the cat did do… glaring hatefully at Otie as it bounded over Aunt Mag’s bed. Slowly, slowly, the figure on the bed stirred… then, as Otie let out a yell of horror, the pale form sat bolt upright! “I killed her… I killed her!” babbled Otie, as several men led him out of the house.
“Why, what’s wrong with Otie Simmons?” asked Aunt Mag, feebly. “Has he gone crazy?”
“Everyone knows he’s a bit queer!” replied a woman. “Now, just lie back and rest, and try to forget what happened last night… when your poor black cat was shot dead on your lap!”
Seeing Rabbits
JOHN MARA, WHO’D HAD TOO MUCH TO DRINK, stared at the strange, rocket-like machine that his headlights picked up along the side of the lonely country road. For a moment, he thought it might be real, but when he saw the large pink rabbit standing upright on its hind legs near the machine, he chortled happily. “Haw, I’m seein’ rabbits again,” he giggled.
On a sudden impulse, the intoxicated man pulled over to the side of the road and stopped in front of the rabbit. “Hey, wanna ride?” he shouted. The rabbit stared coldly at him for a moment and then said distinctly, “Yes, I think I do. Just wait a moment while I set my roboship controls on a course that will follow us.” As the rabbit disappeared into the interior of his strange ship. Mara slapped his thigh uproariously. “I sure musta had plenty… this is the first time I’ve heard rabbits talk!” A moment later, the rabbit reappeared, got into the car and slammed the door behind it. Delighted with his imaginary company, Mara said, “Where yuh comin’ from… an’ where yuh goin’?” The rabbit’s whiskers ruffled contemptuously. “I come from a world whose name I’m sure you don’t know… I’m going to the city… to city after city… to wipe them and all their inhabitants from the face of this planet!” Mara roared with laughter. “Haw, haw, what a joke!
If yuh come from another world, how do you know how to speak English?” The rabbit snorted impatiently. “Because all of us Rhus are telepathic… and I can read your mind and instantly understand your language! Of course, I’m exaggerating when I say you have a mind. You stupid humans will be no opposition to me whatsoever when I turn the Rhu weapons against you… and when the whole planet is free, all the excess population of my world will come here to settle!”
John Mara roared with merriment. “Yuh sure are a hot one!” he gasped. “I seen a lot o’ pink rabbits that walked around on their hind legs and acted human… just as I’ve seen a lot o’ pink elephants an’ snakes… but this is the first time I’ve seen a pink rabbit that talks!”
“WHAT?” the rabbit shouted. “You mean other pink Rhus have come to this world? You… you must mean the outlaw Rhus… the mute ones who never speak! They are our mortal enemies… they are far more powerful than we arel And if the mute Rhus have already arrived here, this world is unsafe for us… I will have to return and give the warning to my people to seek some other world… perhaps Mars!” Suddenly, before Mara knew what was happening, the rabbit got the door open, leaped up to its roboship that hovered just above the car, and disappeared in a roar of rocket tubes. Grinning, John Mara shook his head. “Boy, I got a real case of allucination from alcohol! I’d ‘better pull over and sleep this binge off!” And he stopped the car at the side of the road and laydown on the seat the rabbit had occupied, his head nestled among a few stray rabbit hairs.
Death of a Critic
ROBERT PRESTON, DRAMA CRITIC for the World-Herald, sat down at his typewriter with an air of obvious relish. This was his sole pleasure in life… tearing a play to pieces with words of bitter mockery. Preston exulted in the power of life or death he had over a new play, for when he flayed one in his daily column, the crowds stayed away from it in droves … and the play folded within a week. And that was why he felt a tingling anticipation as he began typing… because he knew his acid words would sound the death knell for the play he had just seen. “The Rajah’s Daughter,” Preston wrote, “presented by a thoroughly incompetent new producer last night at the Regal Theatre, is the most moronic exhibition ever seen. The heroine…” Preston hesitated. The heroine, a young Hindu girl of extraordinary beauty and talent, had been good… as a matter of fact, she had been the most accomplished new actress he had seen in years. But if he wrote that she was excellent, it would nullify his attack on the play, which he hadn’t understood at all. And since Preston hated anything that was over his head, he made his decision… he’d blast the actress too! But just as he was casting about in his mind for the mocking words he would use to describe the girl, a soft, menacing voice behind him said, “Stop! You’ve got to be fair to her” Preston whirled in his chair and gasped at the tall, turbaned Hindu who stood in the room, arms crossed. “How…how did you get in here?” he gasped. The door was locked!’
“We of the East ignore locks and doors,” the Hindu said. “But you will not ignore the truth when you write about my daughter! She is extremely sensitive, with a fragile soul. I do ask that you write no lies about her. She will be the greatest actress the East has ever produced… merely write the truth! You have been warned!”
Enraged, Preston reached into a desk drawer for his revolver, shouting, “How dare you threaten me? Get out of here or I’ll…” But when he looked up, gun in hand, the Hindu was gone. Preston couldn’t understand his strange disappearance, but he was thoroughly angered now… and his mind was made up. When he got finished writing about that girl, they’d laugh her out of town! The next evening, he read his column in the paper with huge satisfaction. He’d really thrown every barbed, contemptuous word in the dictionary at her. Then, his eye strayed to the next column, a short item telling of the suicidal leap from the ninth floor of her hotel by the actress who had starred in “The Rajah’s Daughter.” Shaken for a moment, Preston shrugged and laughed it off. “That’s the way it goes,” he told himself. “The weak die and the strong survive!” Idly, he tossed the paper away… and suddenly gasped with horror as a pair of white, disembodied hands materialized out of nothingness and grasped it. A finger pointed to his column, and the hands began advancing slowly, slowly towards him. Terror-stricken, afraid that he wasn’t imagining things, Preston backed away… back… back… away from those ghostly hands! Then the hands made a sudden lunge for him, and Preston threw himself backwards… and suddenly felt himself washing through the French windows… and out into space! And as he hurtled downwards, just before he crashed to the sidewalk, Preston thought he heard the laughter of the Fates above him.
The Letter
PROFESSOR HOWARD BLAKE OPENED THE LETTER he had just received from his old friend, Dr. Montague, and began reading: “Dear Howard, I am writing this to you because you are the only one who will believe me… and the only one who can take steps to eradicate the awful thing that has been let loose upon the earth. And Howard, I am not exaggerating when I say awful, for all of earth is threatened by an immensely powerful and incredibly evil thing… but let me start from the beginning. It all started last week. As you know, not many people come to my astronomical observatory, because of its high altitude and isolation, situated as it is high in the Rockies. And so I was surprised when a lone prospector visited me, bringing a strange cylindrical object that he said had flashed down from the heavens and buried itself near his mining shack. He abruptly deposited it in front of my feet and hastily departed, as if he actually feared the thing. Upon examination, it proved to be curiously light for an object of its size, and all efforts to open it or crack its strangely resilient shell were fruitless.
The mystery of the cylinder g
rew as I unsuccessfully tried to determine its nature or origin. I finally gave up, resolved to conduct more extensive tests on it in the morning. But that night, I awoke with an eerie feeling of a strange presence in my room. I flipped on the light… and instantly, a swirling, greenish, slimy thing enveloped me. For a moment, I was paralyzed by the sheer horror of its ghoulish touch… and then I found I was actually paralyzed. Creeping tentacles of slime, had penetrated my skin and reached my nerves, rendering me utterly helpless. And then, when the tentacles reached my brain and the thing began projecting thoughts into my mind, I had a glimpse of the most fiendishly evil intelligence in the entire universe! The thing ’told’ me not to resist its probings of my brain; that it had come from a far-off star after conquering world after world, and that after it had sucked my brain dry of every scrap of knowledge, it would know how to deal with this world… which was next on its schedule of conquest! I tried resisting by blanking out my mind, but it was no use… and the next thing I knew, hours later, I was alone. I staggered to my feet, wondering why the thing had abandoned its victim. And then, as a lightning flash seared the heavens, I knew…Yes, I knew its fatal weakness!
The storm is over now, and I must hurry and write down what I have discovered… so that you will know the secret of its weakness… and warn the whole world to be ready for its coming when it is through with me. I have locked the door of my room, but the thing may come upon me at any moment, may even cut me off in the middle of a sentence, so I will tell you right now that…"
“But… but the letter ends there!” exclaimed Professor Blake.
“I don’t understand it… if the thing did stop him from finishing the letter, how did he mail it? And how…" Professor Blake broke off and stared in horror as a swirling, slimy, greenish thing emerged from the envelope the letter had come in.
