Collected Stories and Poems

by Joseph Payne Brennan

  With a sudden thrill of horror he remembered the eccentric’s missing cow. Before the old man came abreast, he slammed the car door and issued crisp directions to the waiting driver. As the car sped away, he glanced in the rear-view mirror.

  Old Man Gowse stood grimly motionless on the walk in front of Police Headquarters.

  ‘Old Man Cassandra,’ Chief Underbeck muttered. The driver shot a swift glance at him and stepped on the gas.

  Less than two hours after Chief Underbeck arrived back at Wharton’s Swamp, the adjacent highway was crowded with cars - state police patrol cars, cars of the local curious, and Army trucks from Camp Evans.

  Promptly at nine o’clock over three hundred soldiers, police, and citizen volunteers, all armed, swung into the swamp to begin a careful search.

  Shortly before dusk most of them had arrived at the sea on the far side of the swamp. Their exhaustive efforts had netted nothing. One soldier, noticing fierce eyes glaring out of a tree, had bagged an owl, and one of the state policemen had flushed a young bobcat. Someone else had stepped on a copperhead and been treated for snakebite. But there was no sign of a monster, a murderous tramp, nor any of the missing men.

  In the face of mounting scepticism, Chief Underbeck stood firm. Pointing out that, so far as they knew to date, the murderer prowled only at night, he ordered that after a four-hour rest and meal period the search should continue.

  A number of helicopters which had hovered over the area during the afternoon landed on the strip of shore, bringing food and supplies. At Chief Underbeck’s insistence, barriers were set up on the beach. Guards were stationed along the entire length of the highway; powerful searchlights were brought up. Another truck from Camp Evans arrived with a portable machine-gun and several flame-throwers.

  By eleven o’clock that night the stage was set. The beach barriers were in place, guards were at station, and huge searchlights, erected near the highway, swept the dismal marsh with probing cones of light.

  At eleven-fifteen the night patrols, each consisting of ten strongly-armed men, struck into the swamp again.

  ***

  Ravenous with hunger, the hood of horror reared out of the mud at the bottom of a rancid pool and rose towards the surface. Flopping ashore in the darkness, it slid quickly away over the clumps of scattered swamp grass. It was impelled, as always, by a savage and enormous hunger.

  Although hunting in its new environment had been good, its immense appetite knew no appeasement. The more food it consumed, the more it seemed to require.

  As it rushed off, alert to the minute vibrations which indicated food, it became aware of various disturbing emanations. Although it was the time of darkness in this strange world, the darkness at this usual hunting period was oddly pierced by the monster’s hated enemy - light. The food vibrations were stronger than the shape of slime had ever experienced. They were on all sides, powerful, purposeful, moving in many directions all through the lower layers of puzzling, light-riven darkness.

  Lifting out of the ooze, the hood of horror flowed up a lattice-work of gnarled swamp snags and hung motionless, while drops of muddy water rolled off its glistening surface and dripped below. The thing’s sensory apparatus told it that the maddening streaks of lack of darkness were everywhere.

  Even as it hung suspended on the snags like a great filthy carpet coated with slime, a terrible touch of light slashed through the surrounding darkness and burned against it.

  It immediately loosened its hold on the snags and fell back into the ooze with a mighty plop. Nearby, the vibrations suddenly increased in intensity. The maddening streamers of light shot through the darkness on all sides.

  Baffled and savage, the thing plunged into the ooze and propelled itself in the opposite direction.

  But this proved to be only a temporary respite. The vibrations redoubled in intensity. The darkness almost disappeared, riven and pierced by bolts and rivers of light.

  For the first time in its incalculable existence, the thing experienced something vaguely akin to fear. The light could not be snatched up and squeezed and smothered to death. It was an alien enemy against which the hood of horror had learned only one defence - flight, hiding.

  And now as its world of darkness was torn apart by sudden floods and streamers of light, the monster instinctively sought the refuge afforded by that vast black cradle from which it had climbed.

  Flinging itself through the swamp, it headed back for sea.

  The guard patrols stationed along the beach, roused by the sound of gunfire and urgent shouts of warning from the interior of the swamp, stood or knelt with ready weapons as the clamour swiftly approached the sea.

  The dismal reedy beach lay fully exposed in the harsh glare of searchlights. Waves rolled in towards shore, splashing white crests of foam far up the sands. In the searchlights’ illumination the dark waters glistened with an oily iridescence.

  The shrill cries increased. The watchers tensed, waiting. And suddenly across the long dreary flats clotted with weed stalks and sunken drifts there burst into view a nightmare shape which froze the shore patrols in their tracks.

  A thing of slimy blackness, a thing which had no essential shape, no discernible earthly features, rushed through the thorn thickets and on to the flats. It was a shape of utter darkness, one second a great flapping hood, the next a black viscid pool of living ooze which flowed upon itself, sliding forward with incredible speed.

  Some of the guards remained rooted where they stood, too overcome with horror to pull the triggers of their weapons. Others broke the spell of terror and began firing. Bullets from half a dozen rifles tore into the black monster speeding across the mud flats.

  As the thing neared the end of the flats and approached the first sand dunes of the open beach, the patrol guards who had flushed it from the swamp broke into the open.

  One of them paused, bellowing at the beach guards. ‘It’s heading for sea! For God’s sake don’t let it escape!’

  The beach guards redoubled their firing, suddenly realizing with a kind of sick horror that the monster was apparently unaffected by the rifle slugs. Without a single pause, it rolled through the last fringe of cattails and flopped on to the sands.

  As in a hideous nightmare, the guards saw it flap over the nearest sand dune and slide towards the sea. A moment later, however, they remembered the barbed wire beach barrier which Chief Underbeck had stubbornly insisted on their erecting.

  Gaining heart, they closed in, running over the dunes towards the spot where the black horror would strike the wire.

  Someone in the lead yelled in sudden triumph. ‘It’s caught! It’s stuck on the wire!’

  The searchlights concentrated swaths of light on the barrier.

  The thing had reached the barbed wire fence and apparently flung itself against the twisted strands. Now it appeared to be hopelessly caught; it twisted and flopped and squirmed like some unspeakable giant jellyfish snared in a fisherman’s net.

  The guards ran forward, sure of their victory. All at once, however, the guard in the lead screamed a wild warning. ‘It’s squeezing through! It’s getting away!’

  In the glare of light they saw with consternation that the monster appeared to be flowing through the wire, like a blob of liquescent ooze.

  Ahead lay a few yards of downward slanting beach and, beyond that, rolling breakers of the open sea.

  There was a collective gasp of horrified dismay as the monster, with a quick forward lurch, squeezed through the barrier. It tilted there briefly, twisting, as if a few last threads of itself might still be entangled in the wire.

  As it moved to disengage itself and rush down the wet sands into the black sea, one of the guards hurled himself forward until he was almost abreast of the barrier. Sliding to his knees, he aimed at the escaping hood of horror.

  A second later a great searing spout of flame shot from his weapon and burst in a smoky red blossom against the thing on die opposite side of the wire.

  Black o
ily smoke billowed into the night. A ghastly stench flowed over the beach. The guards saw a flaming mass of horror grope away from the barrier. The soldier who aimed the flamethrower held it remorselessly steady.

  There was a hideous bubbling, hissing sound. Vast gouts of thick, greasy smoke swirled into the night air. The indescribable stench became almost unbearable.

  When the soldier finally shut off the flamethrower, there was nothing in sight except the white-hot glowing wires of the barrier and a big patch of blackened sand.

  With good reason the mantle of slime had hated light, for its ultimate source was fire - the final unknown enemy which even the black hood could not drag down and devour.

  The Calmander Chest

  (1954)

  From the Indies it is, sir!” said the second-hand, dealer, pressing his palms together. "Genuine calamander wood—a rare good buy it is, sir!”

  "Well—I’ll take it,” replied Ernest Maax somewhat hesitantly.

  He had been strolling rather idly through the antique and second-hand shop when the chest caught his attention. It had a rich, exotic look which pleased him. In appearance the dark brown, black-striped wood resembled ebony. And the chest was quite capacious. It was at least two feet wide and five feet long, with a depth of nearly three feet. When Maax learned that the dealer was willing to dispose of it for only twelve dollars, he could not resist buying it.

  What made him hesitate a little was the dealer’s initial low price and quite obvious pleasure upon completing the transaction. Was that fine-grained wood only an inlay, or did the chest contain some hidden, defect?

  When it was delivered to his room the next day, he could find nothing wrong with it. The calamander wood was solid and sound and the entire chest appeared to be in fine condition. The lid clicked smoothly into place when lowered, and the big iron key turned readily enough.

  Feeling quite satisfied with himself, Maax carefully polished the dark wood and then slid the chest into an empty corner of his room. The next time he changed his lodgings, the chest would prove invaluable. Meanwhile it added just the right exotic touch to his rather drab chamber.

  Several weeks passed, and although he still cast occasional admiring glances at his new possession, it gradually began to recede from his mind.

  Then one evening his attention was returned to it in a very startling manner.

  He was sitting up, reading, rather late in the evening, when for some reason his eyes lifted from, his book and he looked across the room toward the corner where he had placed the chest.

  A long white finger protruded from under its lid.

  He sat motionless, overwhelmed with sudden horror, his eyes riveted on this appalling object.

  It just hung there unmoving, a long pale finger with a heavy knuckle bone and a black nail.

  After his first shock, Maax felt a slow rage kindling within him. The finger had no right to be there; it was unreasonable —and idiotic. He resented it bitterly, much as he would have resented the sudden intrusion of an unsavory roomer from down the hall. His peaceful, comfortable evening was ruined by this outrageous manifestation.

  With an oath, he hurled his book straight at the finger.

  It disappeared. At least, he could no longer see it. Tilting his reading light so that its beams shot across the room, he strode to the chest and flung open the lid.

  There was nothing inside.

  Dropping the lid, he picked up his book and returned to the chair. Perhaps, he reflected, he had been reading too much lately.

  His eyes, in protest, might be playing tricks on him.

  For some time longer he pretended to read, but at frequent intervals he slowly lifted his eyes and looked across the room toward the calamander chest. The finger did not reappear however, and eventually he went to bed.

  ***

  A week passed and he began to forget about the finger. He stayed out more during the evening, and read less, and by the end of a week he was quite convinced that he had been the victim of nothing more than an odd hallucination brought on by simple eye strain.

  At length, at the beginning of the second week, deciding that his eyes had had a good rest, he bought some current magazines and made up his mind to spend the evening in his room.

  Some time after he took up the first magazine, he glanced over -at the chest and saw that all was as it should be. Settling comfortably -in his chair, he became absorbed in the magazine and did not put it aside for over an hour. As he finally laid it down and prepared to pick up another, his eyes strayed in the direction of the chest —and there was the finger.

  It hung there as before, motionless, with its thick knuckle and repulsive black nail.

  Crowding down an impulse to rush across the room, Maax slowly reached over to a small table which stood near his chair and felt for a heavy metal ash tray. As his hand closed on the tray, his eyes never left the finger.

  Rising very slowly, he began to inch across the room. He was certain that the ash tray, if wielded with force, would effectively crush anything less substantial than itself which it descended on. It was made of solid metal, and it possessed a sharp edge.

  When he was a scant yard away from the chest, the finger disappeared. When he lifted the lid, the chest, as he had expected, was empty.

  Feeling considerably shaken, he returned to his chair and sat down. Although the finger did not reappear, he could not drive its hideous image out of his mind. Before going to bed, he reluctantly decided that he would get rid of the chest.

  He was in sound health and his eyes had had a week’s rest. Therefore, he reasoned, whatever flaw in nature permitted the ugly manifestation rested not with him but with the chest itself.

  Looking back, he recalled the second-hand dealer’s eagerness to sell the chest at a ridiculously low price. The thing must already have had an evil reputation when the antique dealer acquired it. Knowing it, the unscrupulous merchant had readily consented to part with it for a small sum.

  Maax, a practical young man, admitted the possibility of a nonphysical explanation only with reluctance, but felt that he was not -in a position to debate the matter. The preservation of stable nerves came first. All other considerations were secondary.

  ***

  Accordingly, on the following day, before leaving for work, he arranged with his landlady to have the chest picked up and carted off to the city dump. He included specific directions that upon, arrival it was to be burned.

  When he arrived back at his room that evening however, the first thing that met his gaze was the calamander chest. Furious, he hurried down the hall to his landlady’s apartment and demanded -an explanation. Why had his orders been ignored?

  When she was able to get a word in, the patient woman explained -that the chest actually had been picked up and carted off to the dump. Upon arrival however, the man in charge of the dump had assured the men who lugged in the chest that there must be some mistake. Nobody in his right mind, he asserted, would destroy such a beautiful and expensive article. The men must have picked up the wrong one; surely there must be another left behind, he said, which was the worthless one the owner wanted discarded.

  The two men who had taken the chest to the dump, not feeling secure in their own minds about the matter, and not wishing to make a costly mistake, had returned the chest later in the day.

  Completely nonplussed by this information, Maax muttered an apology to the landlady and went back to his room, where he plopped into a chair and sat staring at the chest. He would, he finally decided, give it one more chance. If nothing further happened, he would keep it; otherwise he would take immediate and drastic measures to get rid of it once and for all.

  Although he had planned to attend a concert that evening, it began to rain shortly after six o’clock and he resigned himself to an evening in his room.

  Before starting to read, he locked the chest with the iron key and put the key in his pocket. It was absurd that he had not thought of doing so before. This would, he felt, be the decisi
ve test.

  While he read, he maintained a keen watch on the chest, but nothing happened until well after eleven, when he put aside his book for the evening.

  As he closed the book and started to rise, he looked at the chest —and there was the finger. In appearance it was unchanged. Instead of hanging slack and motionless however, it now seemed to be imbued with faint life. It quivered slightly and it appeared, to be making weak attempts to scratch the side of the chest with its long black nail.

  When he finally summoned up sufficient courage, Maax took up the metal ash tray as before and crept across the room. This time he actually had the tray raised to strike before the finger vanished. It seemed to whisk back into the chest.

  With a wildly thumping heart, Maax lifted the lid. Again the box was empty. But then he remembered the iron key in his pocket and a new thrill of horror coursed down his spine. The hideous digital apparition had unlocked the chest! Either that, or he was rapidly losing his sanity.

  Completely unnerved, he locked the chest for a second time and then sat in a chair and watched it until two o’clock in the morning. At length, exhausted and deeply shaken, he sought his bed. Before putting out the light, he ascertained that the chest was still locked.