by Robert Bloch
But he couldn't destroy her intention — her purpose. And sooner or later she would abandon her silly beliefs and resort to direct action. A knife, or a bullet. Yes, Ruby would do just that.
Unless —
Unless he acted first.
Suppose he just quietly turned his assets into cash and left town with Cynthia some night?
It was a tempting notion, but of course it wouldn't work. Ruby would find him. She'd put them on his trail; ruin him, ruin Cynthia. She'd make trouble for him as long as she lived.
As iong as she lived —
Walter Krass snapped his fingers. They made a curious echoing sound in the room. Like a death rattle.
Ruby's death rattle, for instance. . . .
Ruby was out shopping again the night Walter Krass brought the deepfreeze unit home.
He hauled it over on the trailer and sneaked it down to the cellar. It was hooked up and working by the time she arrived.
Ruby was all set to fix supper, but he suggested she come down to the cellar with him.
"I have a surprise for you," he announced.
Ruby loved surprises.
She lost no time following him down the cellar stairs. For once, she fairly bubbled with high spirits, and it pleased Krass to see her in such good humor.
"Oh Walter, I'm so excited! What can it be?"
Krass gestured and pointed around the cellar. "Take a look, Ruby. Notice anything different?" Then she saw it.
"Walter! Not really? A deep-freeze unit—just what I've always wanted!"
"Like it?"
"Oh, it's a wonderful surprise, darling!"
Krass stepped back as she bent over the unit. Then he cleared his throat.
"But that's not the real surprise," he said. "Isn't it?"
"No. I have another surprise for you, Ruby."
"Another one? What is it?"
"This," said Krass.
He gave her the real surprise, then. A poker, in the back of the head.
It took Krass a iong time to do what he had to do — even though the cleaver was sharp. He had a pile of old newspapers and some butcher's paper. It was necessary to make six separate bundles before he could fit Ruby's remains into the freezing compartment of the small unit.
Krass was glad when he finished and put the packages in the deepfreeze. He turned the lock handle and sighed. He had never realized that chopping up a woman's body would be such hard work.
Well, live and learn. . . .
Krass turned and surveyed the cellar. Everything was in order. A bit of mopping had done the trick as far as any stains were concerned. The poker was back in place, the cleaver was tucked away in the corner once more, and the papers disposed of down the drain.
The deep-freeze hummed away, squatting and purring in the gloom like some monstrous beast that has just dined well.
Walter Krass hummed a bit himself as he went upstairs. He was sweating, but merely from exertion — not from fright. Strange. He'd expected fright, shock, revulsion. Instead, there was just a sense of relief. Relief at the thought of escaping Ruby forever; escaping her animal vitality, her overwhelming energy, her frenzied possessiveness which used to assume the proportions of a positive aura.
Well, it was over now. And why should he be afraid? After all, he had a plan, and a good one.
Now it was time to put that plan into action.
Krass went straight to the telephone and called Cynthia.
She answered immediately; she had been waiting for the call.
Their conversation was short but sweet. Krass hung up the receiver knowing that all was well. They were rolling, now.
Early in the morning, Cynthia would be taking the train for Reno. She had papers, photographs, all the necessary items; even some of Ruby's clothes that Krass smuggled out for her. Cynthia had practiced Ruby's mannerisms for hours, just as she concentrated on imitating her handwriting.
It was set. Cynthia, traveling under the name of Mrs. Ruby Krass, would arrive in Reno, establish residence, and obtain a divorce. Exit, Ruby.
And at this end —
All Krass had to do was wait. Wait for the summer to end. Wait for house-heating time. Then, a nice little fire in the furnace, stoked by six packages from the deep-freeze unit.
Exit, Ruby.
That was that. Sell the house, clear out, join Cynthia on the Coast. Everything was neatly wrapped up—just as neatly as those packages downstairs in the deep-freeze.
Krass took a drink on that.
It was too early to go to bed, so he had another. Then a third. After all, it had been a strain. He could admit that to himself, now. He deserved a little relaxation. Another drink, for instance —
That fourth drink brought relaxation. Krass leaned his head back in the armchair. His eyes closed. His mouth opened. Everything was quiet . . . very quiet. . .
Except for the bumping.
The sound seemed to come from the stairs — the cellar stairs. The noise didn't resemble footsteps at all; just a bumping. Something was flopping and thudding, and then it was rolling, rolling closer and closer.
Ruby's head rolled into the room.
Just her head.
It stopped about a yard away from where Krass was slouching in his chair. He could have stretched out his leg and touched the upturned face with his foot, if he wanted to.
He didn't want to.
The face glared at him, and then the lips parted. Lips don't part when the head is severed — but then, severed heads don't roll, either. But here it was. And the lips were parted. Krass heard her whispering.
"Can you hear me, Walter? You think I'm dead, don't you? You think you killed me and locked me away, forever. Well, you're wrong, Walter. You couldn't kill me. You couldn't lock me away.
"Oh, you killed my body all right, and locked that away. But you couldn't kill my hate. You can't lock my hatred away. It will seek you out, Walter — seek you out and destroy you!"
She was talking nonsense, melodramatic nonsense. Yes, the head of the dead woman was talking nonsense, all right. But Krass listened, anyway.
He listened as Ruby's voice told him everything. All about his plans with Cynthia. All about her trip, and the divorce, and selling the house, and going away. She knew everything, it seemed.
"You meant to keep my body in the deep-freeze until fall, until you could build a fire in the furnace and burn it. That was a clever idea of yours, Walter.
"But it won't work. Because I'm not staying in that deep-freeze. My hatred won't let me. We Cajuns know how to hate, Walter. And we know how to kill — even from beyond the grave!
"You don't dare run away from this house and leave my body here. And you don't dare to build a fire until fall comes. It would arouse suspicion.
"So you're trapped here, Walter. Trapped, do you hear?"
Walter Krass didn't hear. The words were lost in the sound of his own gasping. It was the gasping that caused him to awake.
The minute he opened his eyes he knew it was a dream. There was nobody there with him — no head staring up. But he had to be sure, quite sure.
That was why he went back down into the cellar. He cursed himself for a drunken, overimaginative fool the minute he switched on the light down there. Naturally, everything was all right.
The deep-freeze hummed its merry little song over in the corner. The lock was still set.
Just out of curiosity, Krass turned the lock handle and slid the door back.
A wave of cold air hit his face as he bent and examined the packages. Nothing was missing, of course. All six of the bundles were still there.
Except that the big package . . . the round package . . . the one Krass had put on the bottom . . . was now on top!
Krass got out of the cellar, fast, but not until he made sure that the deep-freeze was securely locked once more.
By the time he got upstairs again he knew it was just a mistake. It had to be. It was just a nightmare — the voice of his own conscience.
The next mo
rning Krass felt all right again. He phoned Cynthia's apartment. No answer. That was good — it meant she had really left for Reno. Things would work out now, if only he kept his nerve.
He put down the telephone and went out to the kitchen to make breakfast.
It was then that he saw it, lying on the floor near the cellar steps.
It wasn't much to look at. Just a little strip of butchers paper—a little bloody strip of butcher's paper that might have come off a bundle of meat!
Krass was a brave man. He didn't gasp, or faint, or hide under the bed.
He marched down the steps into the cellar and opened the deep-freeze unit. He didn't have to unlock it — it was unlocked.
There were only five packages in the unit now.
One of the bundles was missing!
Krass turned away, hanging onto the edge of the deep-freeze for support. He locked it and walked over to the corner to pick up the cleaver.
Then, cleaver in hand, he began to search the cellar.
He didn't even dare admit to himself just what he was looking for. It had been a long, thin package — and he could imagine something crawling around in the cellar shadows like a big white snake. But he couldn't find it.
After a while, Krass went upstairs. He still carried the cleaver, just in case. But it wasn't upstairs. It wasn't anywhere. It was hiding. Yes, hiding.
Sooner or later, he'd fall asleep. Then it would come out. It would slither across the floor, wind around his neck and strangle him.
Yes — it was no dream. Ruby's body was still alive down there; alive and filled with hate.
She was right. Krass couldn't go away, because they'd break in sooner or later and find her there. He couldn't light a fire, either, in midsummer.
So he would have to stay here. That's what she wanted. He would stay here and fall asleep, and then she'd —
No. It mustn't be that way.
Better to take the risk and run away. If he was clever, perhaps they wouldn't find him. Ruby's absence was accounted for by Cynthia, posing as her in Reno.
Maybe if he spread the story of the "divorce" around and said he was leaving to follow Ruby and persuade her to return—that might do the trick. Then he could meet Cynthia there and they'd hide out together. They could go to Mexico, anywhere.
Yes. That was the way. The only way. And he'd better not wait any longer.
"Trapped, do you hear me?"
Well, he wouldn't stay trapped. He'd get out, now.
Krass went upstairs and started packing his suitcase. There was no time for a careful selection — he took what clothes and articles he really needed and let the rest go. He'd travel light and travel fast.
The case held everything he needed, except money. That was in the wall-safe in the dining room he'd converted into a "library."
He lugged his suitcase downstairs to the hall, set it down, and went into the library to get the case. There was about eight hundred dollars in small bills, plus his bonds, insurance policies, and bankbook. He'd stop at the bank on his way to the office. Better think up a good sob story for the bunch down there.
It seemed to him, as he turned the corner, that a shadow scuttled across the floor. But shadows don't scuttle. And shadows don't make a thumping noise. . . .
Walter Krass stared down at his suitcase. It wasn't locked and closed any more. It was open. Open — and unpacked!
His clothing lay littered all over the hall floor.
And from the cellar stairs came the sound of thumping ... a faint, receding thumping. . . .
Yes. Something was crawling back into the cellar. He couldn't let it get away this time. It could open the windows, it could follow him. But he wouldn't permit it to escape!
Krass ran upstairs to the bedroom. He'd left the cleaver on the bed. This time he'd make a thorough search. First of all, he'd take the rest of the packages out of the deep-freeze and chop them to bits. Then he'd find the missing bundle and give it the same treatment.
Chop everything into little bits. That was the way!
Panting heavily, he ran down the stairs and made for the cellar steps. He shifted the cleaver to his left hand as he clicked on the cellar lightswitch. Now he could see everything down there. Nothing would escape him. Nothing would escape the cleaver.
The deep-freeze unit hummed. The droning seemed to blur into a mocking frenzy of sound as Krass slid the lid open and peered down into the cold depths.
It was empty.
The packages were gone. All the packages were gone!
Krass straightened up. He gripped the handle of the cleaver and whirled around to face the cellar walls.
"I'm not afraid," he shouted. "I know you're down here! But I have the cleaver. Before I leave, I'll find you — and chop you into bits!"
A sharp click put a period to his words.
It was the click of the wall-switch at the head of the stairs. The lights had been turned out!
"Ruby!" he shrieked. "Ruby — you've turned out the lights. But I'll find you! I can still hear you, Ruby!" It was true. He could hear.
The rustling was all around him. A soft, brittle sound, like the unwrapping of paper from a parcel. From several parcels. There was a slithering, too, and a thumping.
Krass edged back until he stood against the wall. He whirled the cleaver around in darkness. He began to swing it in a wide arc across the floor at his feet.
But the thudding and bumping went on. It came closer, and closer.
Suddenly Krass began to chop at the floor with his cleaver. He rasped out great racking gouts of laughter as he hacked away at the air.
Something was slithering around behind him. He felt the coldness all over him now . . . the touch of icy fingers, the kiss of frigid lips, the clammy caress of a frozen hand. And then the icy band was tight around his neck.
The scream was cut off. The cleaver clattered to the floor. Krass felt the coldness constricting his windpipe, felt himself falling back into a greater coldness. He fell into the coldness but he didn't know, because everything was freezing, freezing. . . .
It was weeks later when Cynthia was exposed as an impostor in Reno, and almost a month had passed before they actually broke into the Krass residence.
Even after entering the house, it took fifteen minutes of preliminary searching before Lieutenant Lee of the Homicide Squad went down into the cellar.
Another fifteen minutes were spent in frantic conjecture and incredulous surmise.
It was then, and only then, that Lee put through his phone call. "Hello . . . this Burke? Lee, Homicide. Yes . . . we're at the house now. Found a body in the cellar — locked in a deep-freeze unit. "No ... it was a man. Walter Krass.
"His wife? Yeah ... we found her, all right. Chopped into pieces, lying all around the deep-freeze. All but her right arm.
"Missing? No, it isn't missing. It's on top of the deep freeze. I said, it's on top of the deep-freeze, holding the lock shut.
"I don't know how to tell you this . . . but it almost looks like that arm pushed Walter Krass into the deep-freeze and then—locked him in!"
The Tunnel of Love
THE ENTRANCE TO THE TUNNEL had been painted to resemble a woman’s mouth, with Cupid’s-bow lips bordering it in vivid red. Marco stared into the yawning darkness beyond. A woman’s mouth—how often had he dreamed of it, this past winter?
Now he stood before the entrance, stood before the mouth, waiting to be engulfed.
Marco was all alone in the amusement park; none of the other concessionaires had come to inspect their property and put it in working order for the new season. He was all alone, standing before the mouth; the scarlet mouth that beckoned him to come, be swallowed, be devoured.
It would be so easy to run away, clear out and never come back. Maybe when the summer season opened he could sell the concession. He’d tried all winter long, but there’d been no takers, even at a ridiculously low price. Yes, he could sell out and go away, far away. Away from the tunnel, away from the red mouth with
its black throat gaping for some human morsels.
But that was nonsense, dream-stuff, nightmare. The Tunnel of Love was a good stand, a money-maker. A four-months’ take was enough to support him for an entire year. And he needed the money, needed it more than ever since he’d married Dolores.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have married her, in view of his troubles, but in a way that’s just why he had to marry her. He wanted something to cling to, something to shut out the fears that came to him at night. She loved him, and she would never suspect; there was no need for her to suspect if he kept his own head. Everything was going to be all right once the season started. Now all he needed to do was check up on his equipment.
The ticket booth was in good shape; he’d opened it and found no damage through leaking or frost. A good coat of paint would help, and he’d put a new stool inside for Dolores. She’d sell the tickets next season and cut down on his overhead. All he need bother about would be running the boats through; shoving them off and docking them for the benefit of the giggling couples who eagerly tasted the delights of the Tunnel of Love.
Marco had checked the six gondolas stored in the shed behind the boards fronting his concession. All were sound. The treadmill motor was oiled and ready. The water intake and outlet were unrusted. He had dragged one of the flat-bottomed gondolas out and it lay ready for launching once he flooded the channel and started the treadmill operation.
Now he hesitated before the tunnel entrance. This was it. He had to make up his mind, once and for all. Would he . . .
Turning his back deliberately on the jaws of the monster (he had to stop thinking like that, he had to!) Marco stepped over and opened the water. It ran down into the channel, a thin brown trickle, a muddy jet, a gushing frothy stream. The tunnel swallowed it. Now the treadmill was obscured; the water rushed into the tunnel full force. It rose as it flowed until the normal depth of three feet was attained. Marco watched it pour into the mouth. The mouth was thirsty. Thirsty for water, thirsty for . . .
Marco closed his eyes. If only he could get rid of that crazy notion about mouths! Funny thing, the exit of the tunnel didn’t bother him at all. The exit was just as big, just as black. The water would rush through the entrance, complete the circuit of the tunnel, and emerge on the other side from the exit. It would sweep over the dry treadmill, clean out the dirt and the debris, the accumulation of past months. It would sweep it out clean, bring everything from the tunnel, it was coming now, yes, he could hear it now; he wanted to run, he couldn’t look!