by Unknown
When they arrived downstairs, they found the dining-room table set for five. The landlady and her husband insisted the guests sit to the right and to the left of Clarisse's empty place. As the Glades and the landlady's husband sat down, the landlady herself shuffled about. First she brought out the cake, then she turned out the lights, and then, sitting down, she began to light each of the candles on the cake — with a pale, cracked yellow tallow that looked as old as the hills surrounding the small village of Remorse. It was then that Alma asked about Clarisse. Where was the dear little girl? "Soon," the landlady replied as she continued lighting the candles, and now both Alma and Eldon realized that there were quite a number of the flaming columns of wax upon the top of the cake. "Little" Clarisse certainly was no child, not by the count of them, no indeed. There were at least twenty — no, thirty... forty... and the tallow still was moving to wicks still darkened.
"Clarisse so loves the candles!" the landlady said. The husband chuckled to himself, and the young couple began to feel somewhat uneasy. It was not just that a sudden wind had begun to moan outside the window behind the chair, which had been reserved for the guest of honor. It was partly the fact that both Alma and Eldon still were counting the candles on that cake. Both of them had passed the ninety mark. "A hundred!" Alma gasped as she reached that number. The landlady cackled. "A hundred is not but half of them!" she said. And then the moaning wind began to intensify.
"Hurry!" the husband urged, and the landlady hurried, sighing with relief when the very last candle was lighted. Neither of the Glades had completed the count when it happened. There was a crashing of glass, the cold wind from outside now entered the room — which was plunged into darkness as the gust of air, with a dreadful sound, put out each and every one of the candles which had been in flame. In the pale of the moonlight Alma and Eldon could see the smoke wisp and curl upward from the top of the cake... wisp and curl and turn and... and then at the very top of the column of smoke there was a face. White... pale... with hollowed eyes... and skin, which looked as if it had been deep in its grave for a long, long time.
"Happy birthday, Clarisse!" the landlady and her husband said joyously. The woman looked at the Glades. "Aren't you going to wish the dear girl happy birthday?"
But, alas, the Glades did not think to do so. They were too busy screaming...
Parties? Ah yes, they really know how to throw a party in Remorse...
THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE SOUP
The story of the Rajah Bersiong
I always find it amusing when I hear well-to-do people complaining about what they call the "servant problem." I frequently am reminded of a saying they have on the Malay Peninsula, which translates "Don't bleed the cook." The saying is used when one member of the household is cautioning another not to insist upon a certain dish prepared for a certain meal, and at first foreigners do not make the connection between the meaning of the warning and the words of its content. Not until they hear the story behind the saying, the true story of a local Malay ruler who came to be known as the Rajah Bersiong... Rajah with fangs. As we have our dinner, I shall tell you the tale...
It happened more than five hundred years ago in the vicinity of what is now known as Kedah. The rich ruler of the area was a proud man, proud of his military might, his immense wealth, his palace with its immense and finely woven tapestries, his handsome looks, his wives and his children, the fine marriages he had arranged for his sons and daughters. Of all these things was the Rajah proud, but he took perhaps his greatest delight in the culinary delights with which he continually surprised his guests at table. For the Rajah had, within his kitchen retinue, an old man who, based upon the testimony of many of the nobility as well as the testimony of his own palate, was the finest cook in that part of the country, and perhaps in any part of the East. And so it was that the Rajah never dictated to the kitchen as to what was to be served — never. While the number of people to be fed and their relative importance always was communicated to the august preparer of the meals, always the decision regarding what to serve and how was left to the cook himself.
Until that one night...
It was to be a special soup, something the cook never had prepared before. The basic ingredients of the new effort are unknown today, because whenever the old cook created something new, he allowed no one else in the kitchen with him. Whatever those ingredients were, however, this much is known: One of the elements to be stirred into the broth required some extra fine chopping. And it was while performing this operation that the old cook inadvertently placed his left index finger just a bit too close to the flashing blade of his chopping knife. It was a reflexive motion that caused the painful hand to jerk up from the cutting board and stop at a point directly over the cooking pot of boiling broth. And into the pot something fell. Three drops of blood.
At first the cook thought his effort had been ruined, and he was considering whether he should begin the entire process again. But it was growing close to the time when the Rajah and his guests would be sitting down to eat. The cook's mind frantically thought of alternatives, which he could hurriedly prepare, but at last he decided that there was nothing, he could do. Nothing except to serve the tainted soup as it was. He added the final ingredients, then tasted it He was satisfied that no one would suspect that there was something in his creation which should not be there.
How terrifyingly wrong he was! And how horrified he became when, the next day, the Rajah himself came into the kitchen. He had loved the soup, he said. He had tasted nothing like it — ever. So much did he crave the delicacy that he wanted more this evening. And then he added two specific instructions. The first was that although the same amount of the soup was to be prepared, it was to be served to himself alone, to consume within his own apartment. The second instruction was that more of the special ingredient should be added.
The cook was shocked. "Special ingredient?" he asked.
"Yes," the Rajah replied, wetting his lips. "Whatever it is, you know the element I mean. Is that not true?"
The Rajah's eyes held the look of ice in them. The poor cook, knowing well that the penalty for displeasing his employer was an agonizing torture and a merciless death, could not but admit that he knew the special ingredient of which the Rajah spoke, the ingredient of which he himself dared not to speak. And so that night he followed his instructions, cutting gently into his finger and adding his blood to the broth — but this time six drops — and then carrying the bowl through the halls of the palace to the darkened apartment of the Rajah.
The next day the ruler again visited his kitchen. The cook dreaded hearing the words of his master, yet he knew what they would be. The soup was even more delicious than before. It obviously was the effect of that special something, thus its quantity again was to be increased.
And so it went for more than a full cycle of the moon. Night after night the old cook prepared the same meal for his master, night after night adding increased amounts of his own blood into the broth, and night after night carrying his preparation to the darkened rooms of the Rajah. And then one morning word came from the servants' quarters that the old cook was dead. The entire household had recognized that he had become quite pale as of late, and his final end had not gone unanticipated. Thus it was with some alarm that the household heard their master scream hysterically at the news. And then came the further news that he had shut himself up into his rooms with the order that none should enter — none except those bringing his meals to him at the appointed time of day.
It was not until three days thereafter that the whispers among the servants came to the ears of the eldest of the Rajah's daughters, who with her husband was visiting her father's palace. Two young serving girls were nowhere to be found within the palatial halls. Both of them had been those assigned to bring to the cloistered Rajah his evening meals on the two previous days. The daughter was incensed at the veiled accusation against her father. She instructed the kitchen that, on this night, she herself would bring the tray
to the ruler. And thus it was that she did so, knocking gently upon his door at the appointed time, hearing his voice —- but a strange voice it seemed — instructing her to enter, and then entering.
Her father stood in a dark corner of the room, his back to the door. "Enter, please," he said, indicating a table near where he stood as the place the tray should be deposited. It was not until the girl had done as she was directed that her father turned. She screamed with all her strength as he stepped from the shadows and she saw his face... the wild black hair... the sharp red-stained fangs...
Fortunately for the girl, her husband had not felt comfortable allowing her to complete her mission by herself. Unknown to her he had followed. And now it was his sword, which flashed and took from the Rajah's shoulders in one sweep the horrible monster-head. It rolled to a high lacquered cabinet which, when opened, was found to contain the bodies of the two servant girls... their blood-drained bodies.
Ah! A hideous story, I admit... not one, which perhaps should be told over dinner. And I have been remiss on not mentioning the excellence of your salad, my dear. The dressing, especially. There is something... well, different about it.
DON'T KILL THE LITTLE LAMB
The story of the Fletcher family
I see the way your child plays with his pet. A warm, homey scene, isn't it? And it teaches the child affection as well as a sense of responsibility, true? Of course, there might be such a thing as a child becoming a little too attached to an animal — yes, there might be. The Fletcher family just might be a case in point...
The Fletcher farm was located in New Hampshire, in a rather isolated area of that state. Gareth, age eight, and Libby, age six, had to walk for more than forty-five minutes to get to school. That was, of course, when they walked fast and didn't linger along the way. The point was that recently their parents had been getting reports from the school that the children were showing up very late, and there were one or two days when they did not come to school at all, days when there was no excuse to be made such as sickness. The parents had a rather firm idea of what was behind it all. It was the black lamb.
Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher had given it to the children as a pet. In the beginning it had been an extremely sickly creature, but Gareth and Libby cared for it so well that its black coat turned full and its overall energy level surpassed the norm for such animals at its age. Yet there was a disturbing quality about the little creature. Not only did Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher feel, well, uncomfortable about the black lamb, but the other animals on the farm seemed to shun it. The two dogs, for example, would go nowhere near the lamb, and whenever it came near one of them, the dog would promptly disappear. The children, however, loved their little black lamb and wanted it to go with them everywhere, even to school. The famous nursery rhyme to the contrary, schools are no place for little lambs, regardless of how much the children might enjoy their presence, so the practice was put to a halt. That was, of course, the time that Gareth and Libby began to attend classes with less regularity than before.
The decision was a difficult one, but it had to be made. Mr. Fletcher announced it gravely: the lamb had to go. There were tears and pleadings, but both parents stood firm. Before the end of the week, the lamb would be gone from the farm. It was then that Gareth told his father that several times they had been asked by an old woman if they wanted to sell their pet and, since she had said that they could visit the animal at her place, this might be a solution. Mr. Fletcher did not comment at that point, but the next day, when a thin old crone presented herself at their door, he decided it might well provide the best solution. For one thing, she lived quite far from the Fletcher farm, far enough that the children would soon tire of the long walk to see their former pet. He was sure of it.
But, he was less sure; a week after the lamb had been sold. It was a dark night in October when Mrs. Fletcher reported that the children's beds were empty, and that earlier she had heard them whispering about the lamb. She definitely had heard the word party mentioned. So it was that the Fletchers drove their truck to the place where the old woman lived. The house itself was dilapidated and dark, but from the barn there appeared to be some light... and the sound of voices singing softly. A strange song it was and, as Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher came nearer, the sound of the melody, somewhat off key, and the strange foreign words chilled them to the marrow of their bones. But it was not until they stepped up to the open door that icy hands of fear clutched their hearts.
Most of the people inside were dressed in long black robes, all but three of them. The old woman, standing by what looked to be an altar of some kind, wore a white flowing gown. The two Fletcher children wore their normal clothing as they stood, one on each side of the altar. Upon the altar was the black lamb which, suddenly now, began bleating. The singing abruptly stopped and all eyes turned toward the entrance and to the two intruders. It was little Libby who spoke first:
"Daddy, Mommy! They want to kill our little lamb. They say they have to for their — "
She couldn't think of the word. "Ceremony," Gareth supplied. Then he added. "They said that they must kill our lamb — unless we find them a substitute... something for them to kill. We couldn't think of any substitute... not until now..."
It took a moment before Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher grasped the boy's meaning. By that time they themselves were being grasped, by several pairs of strong hands... hands which now were shoving them forward... toward the altar. They saw the long sharp knife on the altar then, just as Gareth said, with a childish smile, "We love our lamb, Father... we want him with us... always..."
A rather disquieting tale, don't you think? But look there — when you just now reprimanded your child's pet for chewing on the carpet — did you see how your child reacted... the look in his eyes?...
CHAINS
The story of Constable Rufus Steed
You can't judge a book by its cover. How often we've all heard that sage old proverb, one in which Constable Rufus Steed firmly believed. He believed it right up till the grisly end, when the truth of the proverb was put to a rather crucial test...
The little English hamlet in which Rufus Steed was constable was used to quiet times. But when the horrible murders took place it was anything but quiet — not in the daylight hours, that is. At night, all was quiet as death itself. The door of every house was locked up tight. The only sound was that of some lonely dog... or wolf. Indeed, the daytime noise the citizenry made, either in the hamlet's single pub or in Constable Steed's office, had much to do with wolves. Because, you see, the first two murders occurred on the first nights of the full moon. Both victims were young damsels and their throats had been torn out... as if by the fangs of some... wolf.
"A werewolf!" was the cry raised on the morning of the third day, but the cry was not directed at something whose daylight whereabouts and identity were unknown. No, all accusatory eyes lifted to the high hill overlooking the hamlet, and to the dark-walled baronial manor which loomed upward from the heights.
Constable Steed did not have to be told why that was the place where suspicion rested. Less than a week previous, young Hilliard Drew had returned from many years in London. A nice, clean young man, Hilliard Drew seemed, and it was not himself whom the people of the hamlet suspected. No, it was his older brother Giles, whom Hilliard had brought back with him... Giles, whose very face was a study of twisted evil, whose body was bent over forward as if his sins weighed down his stooping shoulders, whose cold, clouded right eye looked as if transfixed on the sight of Hell itself. But it was not the way Giles looked, not that alone, which struck terror in the hearts of the people. It was also the fact that, prior to the brothers* return, Giles had been cloistered in a sanitarium. For a few days after their taking up the old family residence, conversation in the hamlet expressed real pity for young Mr. Hilliard — such a pity that his work or his studies or whatever he was up to in London had to be interrupted so that he could care, bless him, for his demented brother.
And then came the murders
. So it was that, on the day after the second of the two deaths, Constable Steed visited Drew Manor. Young Hilliard Drew who, upon learning of the two poor girls’ end, expressed his view that he thought it was shocking, “really shocking”, graciously received him. But it was when the constable inquired after Mr. Giles that the younger brother looked really disturbed. "Not at all well, not at all," Hilliard Drew said. The constable said that he'd like to question both of the brothers, to find out whether either had heard or seen anything strange in the past two nights. He also mentioned that there was talk of a werewolf in connection with the crimes.
"A werewolf," Hilliard Drew said heavily. "They do exist, you know. I have no idea whether one is responsible for the unfortunate occurrences you speak of, but they do exist. Very sad, very. They can't help themselves, it's a fact." As to whether he had heard or seen anything, he replied that he certainly had hot, and, as for "poor Giles — no, he wouldn't have, either." It was, Hilliard added firmly, quite impossible for Giles to be questioned.
Constable Steed left the house shortly thereafter, but he reflected that impossible was a word he didn't like to use with regard to his business. Thus it was shortly after dark when the constable, using an ill-got device often used by professional burglars, reentered Drew Manor. He had barely closed the door silently behind him when he hastily withdrew into a shadowed corner, just barely making it in time. Coming through the doorway that, from the look of it, led down somewhere below the main floor of the manor, was Hilliard Drew, a flashlight in his hand. Constable Steed waited until the light and the footfalls faded, then he flicked on his own flashlight and moved to the doorway. Down and down the stone stairs he went, careful to make no noise whatever. When he reached the bottom —