by Unknown
Nonetheless, that afternoon as he lay on an almost deserted stretch of Florida sand, Frankie Ventura vowed that he'd make every attempt to get body and mind back into a state of equilibrium. The last job had been particularly unnerving. Every time he closed his eyes at night — or now behind his dark sunglasses — he could see the face of the man, the horrified man whose eyes widened in terror at the sight of Frankie's big automatic, the man whose well-tanned face turned a pale, jaundiced yellow at the sight of his own death coming at him... and then that same face losing all shape as the slugs from Frankie's gun smashed into its center just to the right of the man's nose, splattering bone and brain matter in blood-drenched explosions every which way. A very sloppy killing, it had been, but that's the way it had been ordered up. The man who had assigned Frankie the contract wanted the kill to demonstrate the seriousness of crossing the organization.
But that haunting face... And lately too there were other faces, not as torn apart as that last one, but faces which were in their own way distorted in death. Gray faces... moaning like some lonely wind... faces which seemed to loom over misshapen bodies, the hands of which seemed to be grasping outward, forward, gnarled gray fingers reaching toward...
He woke up with a start, the sweat caused by the heat of the afternoon sun stinging his eyes, his right hand moving up to adjust his sunglasses. His head snapped up in fright as he realized that something was holding down his right hand, dragging on it, grasping it with a clutch of death! And then he laughed at himself and at the two small boys, the older of the two no more than four or five, and the two boys with their sand buckets and shovels who systematically had been covering his body with the fine grains of sand. At first they looked frightened of him, but when he didn't yell at them they laughed buck at him. "Where's your mother?" he asked them, turning about and looking up and down the beach. One of the boys pointed. In three or four places farther up the beach sat individual women, reading, knitting, or just looking at the sea. "She told us not to bother you," the second boy said. "She said that you probably would get mad at us." One of the women Frankie had been looking at now stood, her body an excellent one. She waved to him. He waved back, then told the kids to continue their work. The cooling sensation of the sand felt good in any case and, it just might be that after the boys had dinner and were in bed, Frankie and the mother might hit it off together. Florida, after all, was full of young divorcees...
He closed his eyes, trying to think what the woman might look like close up, feeling the small shovels of sand drop their tiny loads upon his arms and his trunk and his legs. So cool, so very cool... And then his dreams were disturbed once more by those faces of dead men, those pale faces which now seemed to be coining closer, their twisted fingers reaching out toward him, fingers as cold as ice...
He woke then, a shiver of dread running down his spine. His eyes at first could not comprehend the grayness, and then he realized that he must have been asleep for some time. The sun was low in the sky and its rays were almost completely blocked by shroud-like clouds. A bolt of fear shot through him, but it wasn't until he tried to rise that he found himself to be in real panic. He could not rise... he could not move any part of his body. Only his head could he turn, a huge and crushingly heavy mound of sand covered the rest of him. Those kids...
But they were nowhere to be seen. In fact was no one on the beach at all — no one except there woman who spoke from behind him, the woman he could not see because his head would not turn in that one backward direction.
"I told the boys I would finish, Mr. Ventura," she said. Her voice was as cold as the sand, which now was unbearable upon his body. He tried to struggle upward, but he knew it was useless. And then he understood. This woman and her children, they had belonged to one of those he had killed. But which one — which one? Even now as, in the back of his mind those gray moaning faces and those fingers of death came ever closer, he had to know. "Which one?" he cried.
But he gagged upon the last word, the small particles of sand which fell from the suddenly appearing bucket, its bright red and yellow colors looking dull and deadly in the smothered gray light, those particles of sand entering his mouth, flowing down to the base of his tongue, choking as they reached his windpipe. As well-tanned fingers removed his sunglasses, he again tried to scream, and this time the grains of sand dropped grittily into his eyes as well as his mouth. And he knew now that she would not speak to him again, that she would not tell him for whom her act of vengeance was performed. But as the grams of sand followed grains of sand, into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, one of the gray faces, which haunted him in his dreams, came closer than the others. He strained to recognize it, but before he could his brain was bathed in a blood-drenching explosion of choking and heaving, as within his chest his lungs burst and collapsed in agonizing death.
Do you feel overworked? Are the pressures of your job getting to be just a little too much? Consider the beach, my Mend. It can be most relaxful, even on the darkest of days. But do be careful of little boys, especially if they approach you, their little hands grasping tightly little buckets and sand shovels...
THE TERROR BLEND
The story of Malcolm Hatch
I know, you would love to give up smoking, you really wish you could free yourself of the habit... if only you had the required amount of willpower, you say. Fortunately, if you are serious in your wish, there are a number of methods and products, which can be of effective assistance. Do be careful, though, in your selection. And be sure to follow that age-old advice which appears on a variety of cure-alls... use only as directed...
Malcolm Hatch was a determined young man. He had successfully made the transition from consuming the smoke of two and a half packets of cigarettes to taking up the pipe. Unfortunately, the amount of tobacco consumed in his wooden bowl had risen to the point where he felt he had gained nothing as a result. Thus, on that September afternoon when he stood across the counter of the small tobacconist's shop, he emphasized that he was not interested in anything with a gimmick. Purely and simply, he wanted to quit smoking.
The tobacconist brought out a number of items — liquids and powders, pills of various sorts, which for the most part worked on the smoker's senses of taste and smell. But Malcolm was not interested. He had known too many people who had tried such preparations for a time, then simply stopped using them, their level of tobacco consumption again rising to where it had been. "You have nothing else?" Malcolm insisted.
The store proprietor looked at his customer with a strange intensity. Yes, there was something else... something from the rear of his shop. If the gentleman would kindly wait for just a moment... Malcolm waited, and soon he was looking down at a small tobacco tin. There was no label on the tin, just the single word VALEFAR. A brand name? Malcolm asked, adding the second question regarding the manufacturer. The storeowner said that he himself made the preparation. As for the name, it was that of one of the demons from Hell.
Odd name for a product, Malcolm thought, but he was more interested in how the dark rich powder in the tin was to be used. "You place a small amount of it in your pipe just before you light it. This much only," the tobacconist said. First Malcolm was to load his pipe with ordinary tobacco, then just a pinch of the black powder at the top of the bowl. The price was most reasonable. But how did the powder work? Malcolm wanted to know. Again the tobacconist looked at Malcolm with that intense, strangely piercing look. As if wondering whether he might tell his customer the truth, Malcolm thought. "It works," the man said finally. Then he added that he'd developed the powder for another purpose, one, which had nothing at all to do with curing a smoking habit — "but its effects," he said, "are such to accomplish that as well. Repeated use and within a month's time you will no longer wish to smoke. But remember... no more than just a pinch!"
No sooner was Malcolm outside of the store when he loaded his briar pipe with his favorite brand of tobacco. He added just a bit of the black powder and struck a match. As the flame touched
the top of the bowl, a stench — something like sulfur — poured through Malcolm's nostrils. But there was more. Before his eyes the air seemed to move, to rearrange itself. Something, which was dark green in color, something with matted hair and three bulbous eyes... and yellow teeth surrounding a mouth which seemed to breathe fire...
Malcolm Hatch screamed, the pipe dropping from his open mouth. Shaking his head, he found that the vision was gone, the day was still bright — and there on the sidewalk was his pipe, broken in two pieces at the stem. The first test of the powder had its results, he thought to himself.
As did the times which followed, these experiments made in the comfort of Malcolm's own apartment. Each time, the horrible vision would appear along with the sulfur smell. Each time his cry would expel the pipe from his mouth, not however breaking the instrument as before. And yet, as effective as the black powder seemed to be, Malcolm was not satisfied. In spite of the fact that he had taken no inhale of tobacco smoke in all his attempts, the fact was that he still wanted that smoke — he craved it.
He had his ideas about what the stuff was. Some kind of hallucinatory drug, like LSD or something like that, one which threw a real scare into the person who inhaled its fumes after touching a match to the powder. It had worked, yes, but what really was required was to scare him from wanting to light that pipe again. A larger dose, perhaps....
He recalled the tobacconist's warning, of course but thought that the warning had been given only to make sure that no one with a weak heart tried to frighten himself too much. Well, Malcolm didn't have a weak heart, and then too he knew what the stuff really was. Thus it was that perhaps he overdid the additional amount of the powder he placed into the wooden bowl. Making sure that he was seated comfortably, he struck the match and brought it closer —
The flash within the room was as if lightning had struck, the sulfuric stench burning Malcolm's nostrils as if he were inhaling a real fire. And the thing congealing in the waves of air around him... It was the same beast with the horrible smell and terrifying face as before. As it came closer, Malcolm shrank back into his chair, vowing never again to use so much of the stuff. Hallucination or not, this really was frightening.
It was when the dark green something placed a hairy claw on Malcolm's trembling arm that he knew. His cry was short since Valefar, having been called from the beyond for just a little while, was in a hurry to feed...
Ah, I see you smoke a pipe. Please, in the humidor on the table you'll find something I think you'll agree is quite different. I have this tobacconist friend who is an expert at delicate blends. True, he dabbles in black magic, but he keeps his two vocations completely separate for the most part.
CARAFE OF A CORPSE
The story of Durwood Beech
In order for any large organization to run smoothly there must be both leaders and followers. The pity is that, often, a follower such as Durwood Beech, even though he has neither the talent nor the wish to put in the long hours of toil necessary to succeed as a leader, still aspires to that success. It can lead to all sorts of unpleasantries... even death. Such was the case with Durwood Beech.
It was not so much Mr. Mulgrave's job that Durwood Beech wanted. It was what went with the job. The pretty secretary, the office with its sofa and chairs of leather and old wood, and wide expanse of antique desk, the lush deep purple carpet... the things, in other words, which would accrue to Durwood Beech if it were he and not Mr. Mulgrave who held the high-sounding title of general manager. Perhaps it was the silver carafe, though, which came to symbolize for Durwood all that he was not and all that his superior was.
It was a lovely thing. Old, yes, but carefully polished so that each tune Durwood was summoned into Mr. Mulgrave's presence, the light from its bright surface immediately brought the carafe to Durwood's immediate and rapt attention. Many times he found himself staring at it — there on the corner of the baroque credenza of dark wood behind Mr. Mulgrave's desk, there on its silver tray, surrounded by four water glasses, each of which was ready to take into itself the lovely cool water which was protected within the smooth, sleek-lined silver carafe. And, thinking of what the water poured from such a device might taste like, often Durwood would be brought abruptly back to more mundane things by a sharp suggestion from his superior that he was not paying attention to what was being discussed.
Meekly Durwood would apologize, but once back into his little office, that of the administrative assistant to the general manager, an office, which contained meager furniture and a dull brown plastic carafe from which Durwood never, drank, Durwood would smile. For, day by day, the plot he was hatching was nearing completion. For, day by day, Durwood was doing things to the company records — things which, when revealed, would show Mr. Mulgrave to be at the very least a most incompetent steward of company property and which might even hint that the general manager had been feathering his own nest from what rightfully might have been expected to line the company coffers. Carefully, slowly, did Durwood Beech plot. Then he struck. A single telephone calls to Chicago headquarters, a mention of an uncovered "irregularity," brought an executive vice-president to Mr. Mulgrave's office two days later. With the powerful company official came a team of auditors. They were all very efficient. In three hours they had enough to confront the general manager with what they called a number of "serious discrepancies." Further investigation, to take place the following morning, would complete their findings. In the meantime, would Mr. Mulgrave mind terribly if the executive vice-president kept the office keys?
What went on in Mr. Mulgrave's mind — well, one can only guess. As for Durwood Beech, already he was rubbing his hands together, anticipating the feel of Mulgrave's chair, and inhaling a thick cigar behind that wide desk. For he felt that once the hated Mulgrave was deposed, the despot's throne would be given to the faithful servant. And he was right. The executive vice-president, mistaking the gleam of greed in Durwood's eyes for a gleam of intelligence, did in fact promote the "loyal" employee to the position of general manager. The very next morning, it was. The morning they found Mr. Mulgrave dead in his office chair.
He evidently had another set of keys. Also evidently — and this evidence was furnished by the police — he had poisoned himself. There was enough arsenic in the water in the silver carafe to kill three men. Durwood was not acting when he said he was shocked. He'd not expected his little ruse to end this way. He'd hoped only for Mulgrave's removal. But... inwardly he could not help smiling. Certainly Mulgrave had been removed, hadn't he? Therefore, once the offer came from the executive vice-president, he felt there was absolutely no reason for him to wait to take up his new quarters. Out of respect for the dead, however, he did wait until Mr. Mulgrave's body was removed. It was as he was getting adjusted to his swivel chair that he noticed that something was missing. The carafe! It was gone. Of course, the police would have taken it for — ah, but no, they hadn't. Mulgrave's secretary — no, now she was Durwood's secretary — explained that all the police wanted was what was inside the silver container. They were efficient, the police, having already noted for the record that the only fingerprints on the shiny surface were those of the dead man's. She, in fact, was just engaged in washing it thoroughly.
"You'll not want it in the office," the secretary said.
"Not want it?" Durwood laughed. "Of course I want it." He then directed her to be very sure that it was very clean... and to fill it with cold water. He felt a bit thirsty.
The girl did as she was told, not bothering to hide the look of distaste she held for the new general manager as she placed the filled carafe on its tray and then left, closing the door behind her. As for the new general manager, he was swift in filling a tumbler full of water, which sparkled almost as much as the silver from which it came. He lifted the glass high, his toast a silent one, but one which was in its very gesture the height of triumph. Then he drank... in one gulp he emptied the tumbler. He gagged a bit... cried out... choked... coughed... and seemed to be trying to swim on t
he plush purple carpet.
According to the police, there was nothing unusual about the water in the carafe. But within Durwood Beech there was a good deal of arsenic — "enough to-kill three men," the medical examiner said....
The story is true. Don't ask me how. It is true even though there may be no explanation. Unless... well, Mr. Mulgrave was a leader, after all... and Durwood Beech a follower...
THE FLICKERING CANDLES
The story of Alma and Eldon Glade
Parties. They can be such crushing bores. The outcome of a gathering of people depends a bit, I suppose, upon the frame of mind of those who attend, but for the most part it is the ingenuity of the host or hostess, which really makes the event. Or is that really so? Let us consider the party to which Alma and Eldon Glade were invited. Their hosts had been doing the same sort of thing year after year... frighteningly so. And yet it was clearly a howling party, mark my word...
The Glades had transferred from Atlanta to a small sales district, which had some very small towns, some of which had very curious names; such as the village of Remorse, in which our story takes place. They were both in their late twenties, the Glades were, and they had found Atlanta a bustling place. Now, however, the town in which they lived was so dreary that Alma accompanied her husband on his sales tours through his district, the travel being the only diversion the poor girl could get. It was in Remorse that she received a bit more diversion than she — or Eldon — had bargained for.
The inn was old, dusty, and had about it the musty smell of decay. It was not much more than ten in the evening, but there being little else to do, the Glades decided that they would turn in early. Then the soft knock came upon the door. It was the landlady. She wanted to invite the two guests, the only guests in the inn, to Qarisse's birthday party. Little Clarisse would be so happy, the middle-aged woman said. Alma and Eldon looked at each other and sighed. Neither was tired, and if it would make some little girl happy...