by Robert Bloch
Maitland gaped at him.
"How can you be so positive?" he asked.
Sir Fitzhugh beamed. "Because, my dear fellow — that skull was stolen from me!"
"What?"
"Quite so. About ten days ago, a prowler got into the library through the French windows facing the garden. None of the servants were aroused, and he made off with the skull in the night."
Maitland rose. "Incredible," he murmured. "But of course you'll come with me, now. We'll identify your property, confront old Marco with the facts, and recover the skull at once."
"Nothing of the sort," Sir Fitzhugh replied. "I'm just as glad the skull was stolen. And I advise you to leave it alone.
"I didn't report the theft to the police, and I have no intention of doing so. Because that skull is — unlucky."
"Unlucky?" Maitland peered at his host. "You, with your collection of cursed Egyptian mummies, tell me that? You've never taken any stock in such superstitious rubbish."
"Exactly. Therefore, when I tell you that I sincerely believe that skull is dangerous, you must have faith in my words."
Maitland pondered. He wondered if Sir Fitzhugh had experienced the same dreams that tormented his own sleep upon seeing the skull. Was there an associative aura about the relic? If so, it only added to the peculiar fascination exerted by the unsmiling skull of the Marquis de Sade.
"I don't understand you at all," he declared. "I should think you couldn't wait to lay hands on that skull."
"Perhaps I'm not the only one who can't wait," Sir Fitzhugh muttered.
"What are you getting at?"
"You know de Sade's history. You know the power of morbid fascination such evil geniuses exert upon the imagination of men. You feel that fascination yourself; that's why you want the skull.
"But you're a normal man, Maitland. You want to buy the skull and keep it in your collection of curiosa. An abnormal man might not think of buying. He might think of stealing it — or even killing the owner to possess it. Particularly if he wanted to do more than merely own it; if, for example, he wanted to worship it."
Sir Fitzhugh's voice sank to a whisper as he continued, "I'm not trying to frighten you, my friend. But I know the history of that skull. During the last hundred years it has passed through the hands of many men. Some of them were collectors, and sane. Others were perverted members of secret cults — worshippers of pain, devotees of Black Magic. Men have died to gain that grisly relic, and other men have been — sacrificed to it.
"It came to me quite by chance, six months ago. A man like your friend Marco offered it to me. Not for a thousand pounds, or five hundred. He gave it to me as a gift, because he was afraid of it.
"Of course I laughed at his notions, just as you are probably laughing at mine now. But during the six months that the skull has remained in my hands, I've suffered.
"I've had queer dreams. Just staring at the unnatural, unsmiling grimace is enough to provoke nightmares. Didn't you sense an emanation from the thing? They said de Sade wasn't mad — and I believe them. He was far worse — he was possessed. There's something unhuman about that skull. Something that attracts others, living men whose skulls hide a bestial quality that is also unhuman or inhuman.
"And I've had more than my dreams to deal with. Phone calls came, and mysterious letters. Some of the servants have reported lurkers on the grounds at dusk."
"Probably ordinary thieves, like Marco, after a valuable object," Maitiand commented.
"No," Sir Fitzhugh sighed. "Those unknown seekers did more than attempt to steal the skull. They came into my house at night and adored it!
"Oh, I'm quite positive about the matter, I assure you! I keep the skull in a glass case in the library. Often, when I came to see it in the mornings, I found that it had been moved during the night.
"Yes, moved. Sometimes the case was smashed and the skull placed on the table. Once it was on the floor.
"Of course I checked up on the servants. Their alibis were perfect. It was the work of outsiders — outsiders who probably feared to possess the skull completely, yet needed access to it from time to time in order to practice some abominable and perverted rite.
"They came into my house, I tell you, and worshipped that filthy skull! And when it was stolen, I was glad — very glad.
"All I can say to you is, keep away from the whole business! Don't see this man Marco, and don't have anything to do with that accursed graveyard relic!"
Maitiand nodded. "Very well," he said. "I am grateful to you for your warning."
He left Sir Fitzhugh shortly thereafter.
Half an hour later, he was climbing the stairs to Marco's dingy attic room.
5
He climbed the stairs to Marco's room; climbed the creaking steps in the shabby Soho tenement and listened to the curiously muffled thumping of his own heartbeat.
But not for long. A sudden howl resounded from the landing above, and Maitland scrambled up the last few stairs in frantic haste.
The door of Marco's room was locked, but the sounds that issued from within stirred Maitland to desperate measures.
Sir Fitzhugh's warnings had prompted him to carry his service revolver on this errand; now he drew it and shattered the lock with a shot.
Maitland flung the door back against the wall as the howling reached the ultimate frenzied crescendo. He started into the room, then checked himself.
Something hurtled toward him from the floor beyond; something launched itself at his throat.
Maitland raised his revolver blindly and fired.
For a moment sound and vision blurred. When he recovered, he was half-kneeling on the floor before the threshold. A great shaggy form rested at his feet. Maitland recognized the carcass of a gigantic police dog.
Suddenly he remembered Marco's reference to the beast. So that explained it! The dog had howled and attacked. But — why?
Maitland rose and entered the sordid bedroom. Smoke still curled upward from the shots. He gazed again at the prone animal, noting the gleaming yellow fangs grimacing even in death. Then he stared around at the shoddy furniture, the disordered bureau, the rumpled bed —
The rumpled bed on which Mr. Marco lay, his throat torn in a red rosary of death.
Maitland stared at the body of the little fat man and shuddered.
Then he saw the skull. It rested on the pillow near Marco's head, a grisly bedfellow that seemed to peer curiously at the corpse in ghastly camaraderie. Blood had spattered the hollow cheekbones, but even beneath this sanguinary stain Maitland could see the peculiar solemnity of the death's-head.
For the first time he fully sensed the aura of evil which clung to the skull of de Sade. It was palpable in this ravaged room, palpable as the presence of death itself. The skull seemed to glow with actual charnel phosphorescence.
Maitland knew now that his friend had spoken the truth. There was a dreadful magnetism inherent in this bony horror, a veritable Elixir of Death that worked and preyed upon the minds of men—and beasts.
It must have been that way. The dog, maddened by the urge to kill, had finally attacked Marco as he slept and destroyed him. Then it had sought to attack Maitland when he entered. And through it all the skull watched, watched and gloated just as de Sade would gloat had his pale blue eyes flickered in the shadowed sockets.
Somewhere within the cranium, perhaps, the shriveled remnants of his cruel brain were still attuned to terror. The magnetic force it focused had a compelling enchantment even in the face of what Maitland knew.
That is why Maitland, driven by a compulsion he could not wholly explain or seek to justify, stooped down and lifted the skull. He held it for a long moment in the classic pose of Hamlet.
Then he left the room, forever, carrying the death's-head in his arms.
Fear rode Maitland's shoulders as he hurried through the twilit streets. Fear whispered strangely in his ear, warning him to hurry, lest the body of Marco be discovered and the police pursue him. Fear prompted him to
enter his own house by a side door and go directly to his rooms so that none would see the skull he concealed beneath his coat.
Fear was Maitland's companion all that evening. He sat there, staring at the skull on the table, and shivered with repulsion.
Sir Fitzhugh was right, he knew it. There was a damnable influence issuing from the skull and the black brain within. It had caused Maitland to disregard the sensible warnings of his friend; it had caused Maitland to steal the skull itself from a dead man; it had caused him now to conceal himself in this lonely room.
He should call the authorities; he knew that. Better still, he should dispose of the skull. Give it away, throw it away, rid the earth of it forever. There was something puzzling about the cursed thing — something he didn't quite understand.
For, knowing these truths, he still desired to possess the skull of the Marquis de Sade. There was an evil enchantment here; the dormant baseness in every man's soul was aroused and responded to the loathsome lust which poured from the death's-head in waves.
He stared at the skull, shivered — yet knew he would not give it up; could not. Nor had he the strength to destroy it. Perhaps possession would lead him to madness in the end. The skull would incite others to unspeakable excesses.
Maitland pondered and brooded, seeking a solution in the impassive object that confronted him with the stolidity of death.
It grew late. Maitland drank wine and paced the floor. He was weary. Perhaps in the morning he could think matters through and reach a logical, sane, conclusion.
Yes, he was upset. Sir Fitzhugh's outlandish hints had disturbed him; the gruesome events of the late afternoon preyed on his nerves.
No sense in giving way to foolish fancies about the skull of the mad Marquis . . . better to rest.
Maitland flung himself on the bed. He reached out for the switch and extinguished the light. The moon's rays slithered through the window and sought out the skull on the table, bathing it in eerie luminescence. Maitland stared once more at the jaws that should grin and did not.
Then he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. In the morning he'd call Sir Fitzhugh, make a clean breast of things, and give the skull over to the authorities.
Its evil career — real or imaginary — would come to an end. So be it.
Maitland sank into slumber. Before he dozed off he tried to focus his attention on something . . . something puzzling ... an impression he'd received upon gazing at the body of the police dog in Marco's room. The way its fangs gleamed.
Yes. That was it. There had been no blood on the muzzle of the police dog. Strange. For the police dog had bitten Marco's throat. No blood — how could that be?
Well, that problem was best left for morning too. . . .
It seemed to Maitland that as he slept, he dreamed. In his dream he opened his eyes and blinked in the bright moonlight. He stared at the table-top and saw that the skull was no longer resting on its surface.
That was curious, too. No one had come into the room, or he would have been aroused.
If he had not been sure that he was dreaming, Maitland would have started up in terror when he saw the stream of moonlight on the floor—the stream of moonlight through which the skull was rolling.
It turned over and over again, its bony visage impassive as ever, and each revolution brought it closer to the bed.
Maitland's sleeping ears could almost hear the thump as the skull landed on the bare floor at the foot of the bed. Then began the grotesque progress so typical of night fantasies. The skull climbed the side of the bed!
Its teeth gripped the dangling corner of a bedsheet, and the death's-head literally whirled the sheet out and up, swinging it in an arc which landed the skull on the bed at Maitland's feet.
The illusion was so vivid he could feel the thud of its impact against the mattress. Tactile sensation continued, and Maitland felt the skull rolling along up the covers. It came up to his waist, then approached his chest.
Maitland saw the bony features in the moonlight, scarcely six inches away from his neck. He felt a cold weight resting on his throat. The skull was moving now.
Then he realized the grip of utter nightmare and struggled to awake before the dream continued.
A scream rose in his throat — but never issued from it. For Maitland's throat was seized by champing teeth — teeth that bit into his neck with all the power of a moving human jawbone.
The skull tore at Maitland's jugular in cruel haste. There was a gasp, a gurgle and then no sound at all.
After a time, the skull righted itself on Maitland's chest. Maitland's chest no longer heaved with breathing, and the skull rested there with a curious simulation of satisfied repose.
The moonlight shone on the death's-head to reveal one very curious circumstance. It was a trivial thing, yet somehow fitting under the circumstances.
Reposing on the chest of the man it had killed, the skull of the Marquis de Sade was no longer impassive. Instead, its bony features bore a definite, unmistakably sadistic grin.
The Bogeyman Will Get You
THE FIRST TIME Nancy met Philip Ames he didn't even notice her. Of course you really couldn't blame him. After all, she was only fifteen—just a kid. But that was last year, and this time it was different.
Nancy's folks went back to Beaver Lake for the summer in June, and she could hardly wait to find out if Philip Ames still had his cottage down the road.
Hedy Schuster said he was up, all right. She said Mr. Ames lived at the cottage all year. Everybody knows how cold it gets at the lake in winter — practically out of this world. But Hedy Schuster knew, because she talked to Mr. Prentiss down at the store and he said so. That Prentiss was like an old woman. He had his nose in everybody's business.
The first chance she got, Nancy took a walk up the road past Philip Ames's cottage. The door was closed and there were curtains on the windows, so she didn't see anything. But then, Mr. Ames wasn't around much in the daytime. Practically a hermit. Hedy Schuster said it was because he was writing his Ph.D. thesis for the university. He only shined around at night.
"But after all, that's the best time, isn't it?" Hedy Schuster said. It was just like her to make such a snotty remark to Nancy, knowing how it would burn her up.
Not that Nancy ever tried to hide the way she felt about Philip Ames. Why should she? After all, she was sixteen, she had a mind of her own. And Philip Ames was really something.
Nancy always liked tall men, and Philip Ames was positively statuesque. He had such luscious black hair and dark eyes and his skin was so white. That came from not getting any sun at the lake. She wondered how he would look in bathing trunks and if he would spend much time with her folks again this year. He was very friendly with them the last season. He seemed to like Ralph — but then, everybody liked her Dad. And Laura was glad to have company.
Of course, if her mother even suspected how Nancy felt about the man she would be positively furious. But she needn't know, yet. Not unless that Hedy Schuster gave it away, and she'd better not or Nancy would kill her.
Hedy knew some boys around the other side of the lake who had a roadster, and she wanted Nancy to double-date some night, but the first few evenings Nancy stayed at the cottage. Of course she was hoping Philip Ames would come over, and she dressed very carefully; no bobbysocks or kid stuff, only her best slacks and one of those luscious sweaters Laura bought for her at Saks. Those sweaters really did something for her, and it was about time Mr. Philip Ames found it out.
But he didn't come over and he didn't come over, and it was almost a week now and Nancy was going stark raving goony because Hedy kept telling her what she was missing not coming along.
And then, Philip Ames came over. He was even better than she'd remembered — she'd forgotten all about that deep voice of his. A real man's voice, and he didn't laugh all the time like those repulsive young icks Hedy was so excited about. He really was reserved; you could tell he was deep. He was glad to see Ralph and Laura, but he didn
't smile.
Then Laura said, "You remember our Nancy, don't you, Phil?" and he looked at her and nodded and then he just looked.
Honestly, it just sent shivers through her. You'd think she was a mere infant, standing there and trying to keep from blushing. But he didn't seem to notice that. He noticed other things, though, because when they all went out on the porch and sat down, he sat next to her and asked her all sorts of questions.
It wasn't that he was trying to be polite. Nancy could tell the difference. For the first time he was looking at her as a woman; she knew it. And she would never forget it, never. Some day they would both remember this moment together. Some day —
Ralph and Laura kept interrupting Philip with questions about his thesis. He said it was coming along and he hoped to finish it this summer. Then Ralph insisted on telling him about his old construction job, and Nancy knew he was just enduring it all. He wasn't really interested a bit.
Philip asked her why she didn't have much of a tan, and she said she wasn't going out much these days.
"I don't know what's gotten into her," Laura butted in. "She just mopes around the cottage all day, reading. I wish she'd get some fresh air."
"Oh, Mother!" Nancy said. You'd think Laura was talking about a ten-year-old child or something.
"I don't get out very much myself these days," Philip said, rescuing her. "We serious students have to stick together. What say we go for a hike tomorrow evening? Like to see what's going on at the pavilion across the lake, Nancy?"
Would she? Imagine showing up with Philip when Hedy Schuster and her crowd was around. Why it would be —
"No objection, I hope?" Philip was asking Ralph and Laura now and it was OK, of course.
"All right, young lady. See you about eight, then."
That was all that mattered. Of course Ralph had to kid her later about her new boyfriend, and the next afternoon Laura made her promise on her bended knees that she'd be back before eleven. "After all, we don't really know very much about Mr. Ames. He seems like a very fine young man, but — "