Horror Hunters

by Roger Elwood

  Gathering my shattered nerves, I broke down the door. A foul and overpowering stench billowed out like a yellow mist. Gasping in nausea I entered. The room was in ruins, but nothing was missing except that crimson toad-carved jewel Tussmann called the Key, and that was never found. A foul, unspeakable slime smeared the window-sill, and in the center of the room lay Tussmann, his head crushed and flattened; and on the red ruin of skull and face, the plain print of an enormous hoof.

  Mr. Ames’ Devil

  August Derleth

  Sherwood Ames was an amiable little man whom nobody looked at twice. It was not his fault; he had nothing distinguishing about him, and neither had his parents. Somewhere in his early years, however, Mr. Ames had picked up some knowledge of wizardry, and secretly, he often convinced himself that he was an adept at summoning devils, and practising the black arts.

  Mr. Ames, however, had never really summoned a devil.

  Until one night in mid-summer when he had nothing better to do. He constructed all the designs he had learned, took his place in the middle, and did all the mumbo-jumbo he was supposed to do. He was both surprised and shocked at his success. He had hardly uttered his last syllables before there was a flash of fire, an overwhelming odor of brimstone, and there was Mr. Ames’ devil. He was pint-size, to be sure, but Mr. Ames himself was not a giant.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Mr. Ames thoughtlessly.

  The imp grimaced and informed Mr. Ames that he was being extremely distasteful. He went on to inquire why Ames needed a personal devil, since he had been having things pretty much his own way insofar as his meager demands on life were concerned. Besides, complained the imp, he had personally been having a good time making things hot for a couple of sinners in Vichy.

  “In that case,” said Mr. Ames agreeably, “I’ll send you back.”

  “Impossible,” said the devil.

  Mr. Ames remained agreeable. He explained that he had just wanted to summon a devil; he had not really believed he could do it.

  Firmly the devil pointed out to Mr. Ames that he had gone through the accepted ritual for summoning a personal devil, and there was now nothing for it but to keep him on. “My name is Zebub,” concluded the imp. “I’m something in the line of Beelzebub.”

  “All the same, Zebub, I’m going to send you back,” said Mr. Ames cordially. “I really have no use for a devil.”

  “Oh, you could use me,” said Zebub. “I could see to that.”

  “No, you’ll have to go back,” said Mr. Ames firmly.

  Zebub shook his head and hopped around quite agilely to a comfortable position astride Mr. Ames’ instep. “Quite impossible,” he said. “I may like it here.”

  “I may have forgotten the words,” agreed Mr. Ames uncomfortably.

  “Even if you haven’t forgotten,” said Zebub.

  Mr. Ames thought hard, and words came back. He said them faithfully and performed the prescribed ritual. Nothing whatever happened. Zebub had gone over to the window and looked out.

  “You see,” he said over his shoulder. “That ritual’s no good anymore. It’s been outlawed. By the union.”

  “What union?”

  “The Personal Devils’ Union, Local Number 7. Really, Mr. Ames, for a summoner of devils, you’re not up to date. The fact is, the moment we organized, we made it impossible to discharge any one of us without due and sufficient cause.”

  Mr. Ames was aghast. “You mean you’re going to stay?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mr. Ames did not know what to say. He was even farther from knowing what to do. He looked dubiously at Zebub and contemplated his future. What would people say? After all, he had his position in Tattersall, Swithin & Ames to think about. What would old Tattersall say? Contemplating the head of the firm, Mr. Ames began to perspire.

  “No,” said Ames firmly, shaking his head, “it won’t do. It can’t be done. Why, just think, I’ll be asked all sorts of embarrassing questions, and what will I say?”

  “I see your point,” said Zebub. “Naturally, I don’t hold with telling them the truth—but in this case, they would believe you were telling a preposterous lie, and the resulting slander and libel in malicious gossip might well be profitable—from my point of view.”

  “Never!”

  Zebub shrugged. “The trouble with you is, you have no imagination. I suppose I can always make myself invisible.”

  “Well, that might be different.”

  Zebub obligingly vanished. His voice, however, was not gone. It was as commanding as ever. “I’m really still here,” he said. He went on to point out that arrangements ought to be made at once; he would sleep next to the fireplace—“It reminds me of home!”—he would spend all the rest of his time at Mr. Ames’ elbow, ready to serve. “Service is our motto, Mr. Ames, but please try to leave the deity out of your conversation as much as possible. You have no idea how mention of him sends cold shivers up my spine.”

  “I didn’t know devils had feelings.”

  “Of course we have,” said Zebub in an injured voice. “Thank Satan, however, we’re not entirely human. Only a few of us have sunk to that level of degradation to suffer the punishment of being banished to earth to become human—like Hitler, for instance. The only trouble with him, with his methods, he sends more business to the other place.”

  Mr. Ames swallowed hard in an effort to convince himself he was not, after all, dreaming. Zebub’s voice came out of the air beside him; the imp had moved over closer to the fireplace, and now spoke from there. It was inconceivable that he should have succeeded in his little experiment; it was monstrous that he should now be saddled with Zebub. Deep down in his rather simple mind, he had never really believed he could summon a demon. But he had. He had raised Zebub out of the Pit, and here he was, a permanent addition to the household, which consisted only of Mr. Ames and a woman who did the place.

  The whole thing was beyond reason. He could take the devil in his stride, given a month or so in which to do it, but all this talk about the Personal Devils’ Union and the rules and regulations of that union were too much for him; it was not fair; it was riot in the books. Somehow he had been put upon.

  Zebub made himself visible again, quite abruptly. He was standing in the middle of the fire toasting himself a brilliant crimson. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked. “After all—we aim to serve. Anyone whose neck you want broken, for instance?”

  “Certainly not!” exclaimed Mr. Ames, honestly shocked.

  “Tch, tch! How disappointing! Remember, you have only to wish, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Forthwith he disappeared once more. It did not add to Mr. Ames’ comfort to become aware of the strong odor of brimstone and sulphur that tainted the air.

  When he did not see Zebub for twenty-four hours, Mr. Ames began to think he had been a little hasty to respond to his visit by despairing for his future; it began to seem that Zebub had indeed taken his departure, union or no union, and he was free of him. He breathed easier, and made a determined effort to forget him.

  In a week’s time, Mr. Ames had quite regained his self-composure. He was convinced that Zebub had given him up as a bad job and taken French leave, and he began to look back on his summoning of Zebub as a pleasantly dangerous episode, much as the errant husband looks back on his straying when it is quite safe to do so.

  Unfortunately, his composure was premature. He had made the mistake of not taking the devil at his word, and unlike what he might have expected from that notorious purveyor of prevarications, the devil’s word was as good as his bond. Zebub had promised not to leave him; he had said nothing of making a nuisance of himself. As a matter of fact, he was profoundly bored with his existence and spent most of each day enjoying his memory of the Vichy sinners.

  Ultimately, of course, Mr. Ames was destined for a rude awakening. This took place on the ninth day after Zebub had first made his appearance. It had been a trying day, and old Tattersall was in one of his worst moods. There
was no doubt about the old man’s ability to be the most disagreeable person on the face of the earth if he had a mind to. On that day he very definitely had. He ranted and stormed and called repeatedly upon heaven to witness the mental infirmities of his partners and the staff. He made things so miserable for Ames, whose chief happiness lay in being unobtrusive, that Ames was fervently convinced there was not another martinet like Old T. in all Chicago. Or even in New York. In any case, the upshot of his misery was that Ames left the office that evening in a cold rage. I wish the old fool were on the Styx! he thought.

  “How’s that again?” asked a voice at his side.

  “I wish old Tattersall were on the Styx,” said Ames, thinking one of the junior clerks had spoken to him.

  “Now, that’s something like it!”

  Young Ruston, coming up behind him, said, “I guess everybody but Swithin feels the same way.”

  Mr. Ames was comforted.

  His comfort lasted less than an hour. He had hardly got home when the telephone rang. It was Mr. Swithin, begging to inform Mr. Ames dolefully that Mr. Tattersall had been struck and killed by a Wilson Avenue bus at a street intersection. Mr. Swithin was now head of the firm, Mr. Ames its junior, and young Mr. Tattersall, the old man’s nephew, would replace Mr. Ames.

  Ames was not a man given to belief in coincidence. He was badly shaken when he retired to his favorite chair and, swallowing hard, ventured weakly to address Zebub.

  “Yes?”

  There he was, in his preferred position smack in the middle of the fire, switching his tail to and fro, his complexion a deep rose. He looked sleek and happy, and just at the moment seemed very well satisfied with himself.

  “You called, I believe?”

  “You’ve been here, then—all the time?”

  “At your elbow except for the time you sent me on that errand.”

  “What errand?”

  “To take care of Mr. Tattersall.”

  “I said I wanted him on the Styx—not pushed in front of a bus. That’s what you did, isn’t it?” Mr. Ames’ anger vied with his hysteria.

  “It was really nothing. He pushed very easily.” Zebub smiled modestly.

  “But that’s murder!”

  “How did you think we could get him to where you wanted him? We couldn’t transfer him bodily. That’s against all the rules and regulations. Oh, I know we used to do it back in the middle ages. We snaffled a bishop or two that way. But really, Old Timer, it’s not being done these days. Help them to shuffle off their mortal coil, and then—pouf!” he snapped his fingers and grinned engagingly, “it’s done. Right now Old T. is enjoying himself on a houseboat on the Styx—you knew John Kendricks Bangs has one there.”

  _ Mr. Ames gritted his teeth and muttered, “I’m dreaming this.”

  “No, it’s just your lack of imagination.”

  Ames closed his eyes tightly.

  “You needn’t do that,” protested Zebub, and obligingly vanished. “It really makes no difference whether you see me or whether you don’t. Considering your state of mind, I think you’d feel better if you didn’t see me.”

  There was a pause. Mr. Ames opened one eye warily.

  Zebub was gone. He expelled a breath cautiously and opened the other eye.

  “Another thing,” said Zebub’s voice out of the fire, “I wish you wouldn’t call me like this unless you really have something for me to do.”

  Mr. Ames gave forth a strangled gasp and fled the house.

  He walked for a long time around Lincoln Park, but the walk was no comfort to him. He thought and thought about how to get rid of Zebub, but nothing presented itself to him. There was always one alternative—he could go to see MacDougal, the psychic researcher who was a member of his own Club—but he hesitated to do so lest Mac, who was a congenial old soul, think he had lost his mind. He went home at last, unhappy.

  He conditioned himself to living with the threat of Zebub. That was the way he thought of the imp; since he did not see him, and did not hear him, he considered him an omnipresent threat rather than a reality. He conditioned himself very simply by taking strict care that he wish no one any trouble, no matter how hard-pressed his patience might be.

  He never knew how he got through those first few days. He had gone to old Tattersall’s funeral in a pall of gloom so deep that he thought everyone would notice; his gloom only superficially covered his air of guilt. But no one seemed to pay any attention to him, and his spirits lifted a little; he felt a little less like a murderer and that evening simply hurried past newspaper pictures of gangsters instead of sitting and staring at them and imagining that he was a brother under the skin. But somehow he managed to overcome that dreadful conviction of guilt, and after two months or so he could almost forget it. He might have forgotten it completely had it not been for his superior position in the firm; there was always that to remind him that Old T. was no more and that his position in the world had altered. More than once even then he caught himself wondering what Old T. did to pass the time on that houseboat on the Styx.

  But of course, even with every good reason in the world, it could not be expected that any man—least of all, a man like Mr. Ames—could hold himself in, especially with Herbert Swithin around. Old T. had been bad enough; but there was really no comparison. Swithin was insufferable; after being held down so many years by Old T., Swithin now made up for all his lost time, and doubled up on it. All at the expense of Ames and the staff. Nagging, fault-finding, querulousness, a dictator complex —all these and more, poor Ames suffered.

  No one could really blame him for giving vent to his spleen by calling down a pox on Swithin.

  So Herbert Swithin got the pox, and with a vengeance.

  It was Zebub’s doings; there was never a question of that in Ames’ mind. He hurried home that day, after learning at the office the reason for Swithin’s absence, and summoned Zebub.

  “Now what?” demanded the imp. “Isn’t my work satisfactory?”

  “Well, no. Only, you’ve taken me too literally.”

  Zebub grinned and wagged his tail. “Oh, not at all. Mr. Swithin will be gathered in next Monday. He will have a nice warm spot.”

  “You don’t mean.—he’s going to die?”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Mr. Ames. Of course he is. I read your heart when you called down that pox.” He smirked. “Now you’ll be head of the firm, and since that is soon to be a fact, there is a little matter I’ve been meaning to bring up. I’ve not really been paid, you know, and it’s about time for an accounting.”

  “Paid!” shouted Ames, almost beside himself. “What are you talking about? It’s enough that I’m at fault in this business of murder—an accessory before and after.”

  “Oh, posh! Don’t moralize. You’ve no idea how tiresome that is for a person of my connections. To get back to the point—my remuneration. You must admit I’ve served you well. Now, then, Swithin has no heirs; so your nephew can step into young Tattersall’s place, when you two are moved up.”

  “I have no nephew.”

  “Oh, you will have. I’ll serve. I’ll make the change. I’ve long thought it would be much more fun to have a really active part in a legal firm. The chances of chicanery are very good—I’ve observed them repeatedly from the vantage point of my invisibility. Something ought to be made of them. As it is, you’re all too disgustingly honest.”

  Ames thought Zebub was joking. When finally the imp had persuaded Mr. Ames that he was most certainly in earnest, Ames was in no condition to argue. Indeed, he commanded Zebub to disappear and himself went out, hailed a cab, and was driven down town.

  It was only too clear that Zebub’s long inactivity was getting the best of him. Just as it would undoubtedly get the best of Ames if something weren’t done immediately. Like it or not, he had to see MacDougal.

  He went straight to the Cliff dwellers’ and there was old Mac, playing chess and talking politics with a couple of architects. As soon as the game was finished—after two a
gonising hours—he managed to comer Mac.

  “You look ill, Ames. What is it?” Mac was solicitous, his watery blue eyes grave.

  Out came Ames’ story in a burst of extraordinary frankness. He bared his soul for MacDougal, and the old man did not once interrupt. His face betrayed his surprise, however, but, as far as Ames could see, there was no great disbelief. That was one major obstacle hurdled. Now what to do?

  “That should be quite simple,” replied MacDougal ingratiatingly. “You’ll have to change your status.”

  “My status? But how would that affect Zebub and his infernal union regulations?”

  “Ah, don’t you see? If you cease to be an employer, and become an employee instead, the rules won’t apply to him any more.”

  “But now …”

  “That’s formula 73. Just look it up. You’ll just have to join the union, what was it?—the Personal Devils’ Union, Local Number 7, I think you said.”

  Mr. Ames was delighted at this simple way out. He hurried home forthwith and looked up the formula.

  “I wouldn’t pay any attention to that old fogy,” cautioned Zebub.

  “Naturally, you wouldn’t!” chortled Ames.

  “Just the same . .

  “Now, see here, Zebub. As long as you’re in my service, you’ll do as I say. And I’m telling you to hold your tongue.”

  Zebub switched his tail angrily and held his tongue, withal grinning sardonically.

  Mr. Ames got himself ready. He laid out all the cabalistic designs, and began to recite the formula which would admit him to membership in the Personal Devils’ Union and at the same time rid him of Zebub.

  Unfortunately for Mr. Ames, he forgot that membership in the Personal Devils’ Union entailed certain responsibilities and put him under the same rules and regulations which governed Zebub.