The Golden Age of Weird Fiction Megapack, Volume 5

by David H. Keller

  “I told her I’d beat her to death and I’m gwine to!” he yelled, bringing the snapper of a blacksnake whip down across the poor girl’s pain distorted face. It was more than evident he had been drinking, even more than usual.

  “No more of that!” I commanded, grabbing the whip. “Bad enough to have her nearly dead without having murder on your soul.”

  He attempted to jerk the whip from my hand, saying:

  “What is she to you?”

  Honestly I do not know what made me do it—the words came from my lips as though I were a puppet; some other person giving my words voice.

  “Didn’t she tell you? We are going to be married. I asked her and she agreed and then she disappeared. She is going to be my wife, some day; in the meantime I am going to take her to my home and try to save her life. If she dies, however, I will bury her—without expense to you.”

  That bothered him. Even in his drunkenness he saw that it might be most advantageous to have the girl married. But he was crafty.

  “What do I get out of it? Been a lot of trouble and expense raising that slut. Tell me—what do I get?”

  “If you promise to leave us alone and stay away from her, I’ll give you a check for one hundred dollars.”

  “Fair enough—don’t ever worry about my coming around where she is,” said Ruben Miller, licking his lips and trying to figure how long the hundred would keep him in liquor. I sat down and wrote the check. That was twice in twelve hours that my money had saved a life; first a horse and now a sick girl.

  Granny Miller came hobbling into the room just as I was wrapping Aline in a blanket.

  “I want my bridle,” she whined. “I want my bridle, my pretty bridle. Some one’s got my bridle and I long for it muchly.”

  Miller, without speaking a word, took her roughly by the shoulder and almost threw her out of the room; threw her out bodily. She continued crying in the next room. It was a sorry way to treat an old woman I thought as I gathered the girl in my arms and carried her to the cart. It was all I could do to lift her up onto the seat beside me for Miller never offered any help; just stood watching, chewing tobacco, adding his filth to the already soiled earth. Just as I started off I turned to him and asked:

  “What bridle was the old lady asking for?”

  “You ask too many damned questions,” he shouted, shaking his fist at me. “It’s none of your business and someday you’ll get a bullet in you if you don’t learn to mind your own affairs. Take the wench and travel. I don’t want to ever see her again.”

  On the way home I stopped at the blacksmiths. William Jordan came to the door with more than usual interest in his kindly face.

  “Will you do me a favor, Mr. Jordan? I have Aline Miller here. She is very sick. I brought her with me to prevent her father from beating her to death. I need a woman to nurse her. Will you ask your wife to come over and stay until she is out of danger—or dead?”

  “The Miller girl? You are taking her into your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen to me, Doctor: Take my advice and keep on driving; Go to Walden and put her in the hospital. She is not the kind of woman you want in your house.”

  “I am afraid she is, Mr. Jordan. You see, I am going to marry her—if she lives.”

  My statement altered his attitude; immediately he became both dignified and solicitous.

  “In that case I will go for my wife at once. She will not enjoy it but she will go. We will be right over.”

  For three hours Mrs. Jordan worked with the girl, bathing and oiling her with soothing unguents. Now and then I went in to give Aline a stimulant. She must have walked a long time for she was mud stained from head to foot. After she was bathed clean and bedded between clean white sheets I went in to examine her; binding her feet and hands; washed out her mouth and painted the welts on her side and face.

  Pneumonia developed and for a week Aline hovered between life and death. Mr. and Mrs. Jordan and a young doctor who loved her fought desperately for her life. At last the crisis came and she slept. In another week I was able to remove the bandages from her extremities. They had been horribly mistreated. They were seared in round, hard pads with many evenly spaced round spots as if made by some pointed instrument, such as an ice pick. On the outside of the hands and feet there were short, livid bruises directly corresponding to those smaller dots on the inside of the palms and soles.

  One evening I called Jordan into my office and after closing the door I said:

  “Mr. Jordan, I am going to ask a question about my future wife and I want an honest answer. When I brought her home her hands and feet were burned on the under part and had many holes in them. Have you any idea how she came by these injuries?”

  “What kind of holes?” he countered.

  “Small holes, from top to bottom, sort of like nail holes.”

  “How many?”

  “Eight on each hand and foot.”

  “And the hands and feet were burned?”

  “Yes. The burns were over a half inch wide and curved, but the heels and wrists were unharmed. No holes there.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How was she hurt?”

  “How can I tell?”

  “Have you any ideas?”

  “Lots of them. Haven’t you?”

  I became irritated.

  “Mr. Jordan, I asked you for help, not to play a game of mental chess.”

  “No doubt, but our psychology is different. If I told you what I think, you would send me to the Insane Hospital at North Walden. But do you remember the day Ethan Holt had me shoe his mare? Do you recall the bridle he had on her?”

  “Certainly I remember.”

  “I never saw that bridle close,” his eyes were dim and mysterious as he spoke, “but I always wanted to get it into my hands. If I knew more about that bridle we might discover the truth about the rest of it. I mean we might somehow find out whether we were right or wrong.”

  Unlocking a drawer of the desk I took out the bridle and handed it to him.

  “There it is.”

  He looked at it intently; felt every part of it; smelt it carefully and returned it to me.

  “Where did you get it?” he asked.

  “It was on the mare the night she trampled Holt to death. I bought her for one hundred dollars. The old man was going to kill her.”

  “And she got away from you?”

  “Yes. I took off the bridle so she could drink from the trough and she got away. All I have for my hundred is the bridle.”

  “Have you any idea who had the bridle before Holt got it?”

  “No—that is—not exactly,” as memory stirred. “Now I remember—Granny Miller was asking about a bridle that she lost the morning I went for Aline.”

  “I thought so,” said the blacksmith.

  “Thought what?”

  “Thought she had lost one. Now listen to me, Doctor: you are close to making a serious error by making the people of Lownsberry Corners think you will marry the Miller girl when she recovers. I am not going to advise you not to. All I am going to do is urge that you take this bridle to the man in charge of the Armor Room at the Metropolitan Museum in New York.

  “Let him tell you what he thinks. The Missus and I will care for the girl and perhaps when you do return you will have changed your mind about marrying the girl.”

  “That is all you will tell me?”

  “That’s all.”

  “But it will cost money to go to New York.”

  “It may cost you your soul if you stay here.”

  I left for New York that very night with the bridle wound round my body under my vest. In the morning I was talking to the Curator.

  He spent the entire morning examining that bridle, speechless. He crumbled it in his hands; smelt of it; stretched it as far as his arms would reach; then he scraped it and put the scrapings under a microscope. I watched him carefully as he worked and when he finally returned the bridle to me I notice
d that his hands shook violently.

  “Where did you get it, Doctor Malverto?”

  “It belonged to a family by the name of Miller.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Not a word until you tell me what you think of it.”

  “Here are the facts then. Not fanciful opinions; but facts. The leather is human skin; there is no possible doubt of it—the microscope proves it. It has been kept soft and pliable by the use of what I believe to be human fat. The bit is very old and seems to be of solid silver. So much for the facts.”

  “And how about the fancies?”

  “That is different. Although I have never seen one, actually, only read of them and seen sketches of them, it looks to me like a very fine specimen of a witch’s bridle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It goes back to black magic and the Devil’s Mass. A witch would take her bridle and throw it over a man’s head, whereupon at its first touch, he would become a horse. She would ride him to the mass. When she was through with him off came the bridle, and the poor wretch would stumble home, muscle sore, hands and feet braised and bleeding; tongue cut and lips raw from the gagbit.”

  “And I suppose the doctors thought he had suffered some form of epileptic convulsion?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  “I am not asking you to believe anything. I am only telling you what people believed, long ago. We will give you five hundred dollars for that piece if you wish to sell, Doctor Malverto.”

  “Thanks, but I think not. But I will tell you the story.”

  And so I told him, beginning with the illness of Ethan Holt; how he had come into possession of a beautiful new mare and had met his death by her hooves; how I bought and lost her within the hour after purchase. But I did not tell him about the little woman, slowly drifting back to healthy youth. No. It was best that he should not know about her; about her hands and feet; that she was in my home. I merely thanked him and left, taking the bridle with me.

  Now I knew the whole story; that time I had been called to attend Ethan he had been hagridden to the meeting of the Devil and his followers. Somehow he had discovered what had happened to him. Perhaps the vainglorious girl had bragged and twitted him about it and the next time she had tried to slip the bridle on him he had been too quick and strong and the harness had been strapped on her head instead of his. Then he shod her, determined to tame her, even if it killed him in the taming. But she would not tame and had killed him. I had released her from the spell when I removed the bridle at the watering trough. But there remained the marks.

  So I returned to Lownsberry Corners and found Aline greatly improved. I locked the bridle in the drawer again and going into her room shut the door and sat by her bed.

  “Aline, you know that I am going to marry you and try to make you a happy, respected woman. But before we get married I would like you to be baptized. Then you will belong to God instead of the Devil. You will give up your former life and live as a Christian woman should live with her husband.”

  She greeted my statements with laughter. Again and again she laughed as she kissed me. That first kiss drove me frantic with the sweetness of it.

  “No” she whispered. “You come with me, to the meeting. It will be soon, now, when the moon is full. I will show you something then that will put all thoughts of God and marriage out of your mind. You can have me there, but I will never, never, be your wife. Bah! And be baptized! Never! Never! But you give me back the bridle. We will bit the blacksmith. He is big enough for the two of us to ride him, and how I will enjoy it! To sit close to you on such a stallion and gall him with bit and spur! You should have seen me spur the fitting fool!”

  I held her close to me, raining kisses on her lips, eyes, hair and her slender, alabaster like neck.

  “No! No! You are going to marry me,” I cried.

  “Never!” she replied, pushing me from her. “I would sooner have married Ethan.”

  I left her then and told the blacksmith and his wife that they might go home; for I was taking her to Walden to some friends of mine. Then I spent the rest of the day strengthening the box stall with heavy planks. The next day I told Jordan I had decided not to marry Aline and he shook my hand and congratulated me on my wisdom.

  The evening after the Jordans left, the air was cold, with a light frost, and clear. The stars were unusually bright as though they were intent on lighting the whole of the Corners. I wrapped a blanket around my love and carried her, wondering and protesting, out to the stable. I laid her gently on the clean straw which thickly bedded the stall. I held her firmly there as I gave her a last chance to reconsider and become a decent, Christian wife.

  In reply she spat on me, whereupon I drew the bridle from my pocket, and only then did she realize what I had in mind and she began fighting, writhing and biting, For all my strength, and except for her illness, she would have won out had I not placed a silver cross on her lips, whereupon she fainted. I slipped the bridle on, put the gagbit in her mouth. Just in time I jumped out of the box stall and padlocked the door.

  Three days later I took the blacksmith out to the stable.

  “You got the mare back?” he exclaimed in astonishment.

  “Yes, I found her again.

  “Where’s the Miller girl?”

  “I told you I was sending her to Walden.”

  “So you did. Is that the bridle the mare had on the night you bought her? The one you took to New York City?”

  “The same.”

  He entered the stall, gentling her, took the mare’s hooves, one at a time in his hands to examine them.

  “Was she still shod when you bought her from old man Holt?”

  “I am sure she was.”

  “Shod when you watered her?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, all I can say is that when she got away from you she slipped her shoes; but the nail marks are still there. And her hooves are still burned where I fitted those red hot shoes on her.”

  “You are sure this is the mare you shod for Ethan?”

  “Positive. I know my own work.”

  “How many nails to each shoe?”

  “Eight. And that reminds me—”

  “I know what you are thinking,” I said, “and may I suggest that you stop thinking?”

  He came out of the stall and shut the door.

  “This is the Devil’s work, my boy. Take the advice of an older man and put a bullet between her eyes, and better still, make it a silver bullet with a cross on its nose. Then come to church and be an example for righteous people.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m going to keep the mare and tame her.”

  Now, during the days, I drive one horse and try to make a living. But at night I go into the box stall and try to tame a wild mare. At times she will let me put my arms around her neck and kiss her on the forehead between the eyes, where the silver star is. At other times she fights furiously and tries her best to get me under foot so she can trample me as she did the fitting fool.

  But I am determined to conquer her. When I do I will again remove the bridle; she will be willing to be baptized and marry me, becoming a gentle, loving wife, and faithful.

  Of course, I realize that she may kill me first, in an unguarded moment, kissing my body to death with blows from her hardened hooves. But come what may, I must have her with me, woman or mare, because I love her.

  HEREDITY

  Originally published in The Vortex #2, 1947.

  Dr. Theodore Overfield was impressed. The size of the estate, the virgin timber, the large stone house, and, above all, the high iron fence, which surrounded the place, indicated wealth and careful planning. The house was old, the trees were very old, but the fence was new. Its sharp, glistening pickets ranged upward, looking like bayonets on parade.

  When he had accepted the invitation to make a professional visit to that home, he had counted on nothing more than a case of
neurasthenia, perhaps an alcoholic psychosis or feminine hysteria. As he drove through the gateway and heard the iron shutters clank behind him, he was not so sure of its being a commonplace situation or an ordinary patient. A few deer ran, frightened, from the roadside. They were pretty things. At least, they were one reason for the fence.

  At the house, a surly, silent, servant opened the door and ushered him into a room that seemed to be the library. It not only held books in abundance, but it seemed that the books were used. Not many sets, but many odd volumes were there—evidently first editions. At one end of the room was a winged Mercury; at the other end, a snow white Venus. Between them, on one side, was the fireplace with several inviting chairs.

  “A week here with pay will not be half bad,” mused the Doctor. But his pleasant thought was interrupted by the entrance of a small, middle-aged man, with young eyes, but with hair that would soon be white. He introduced himself.

  “I am Peterson, the man who wrote to you. I presume that you are Dr. Overfield?”

  The two men shook hands and sat down by the fireplace. It was early September, and the days were chill in the mountains.

  “I understand that you are a psychiatrist. Dr. Overfield,” the white-haired man began. “At least, I was told that you might be helpful to me in the solving of my problem.”

  “I do not know what your trouble is,” answered the Doctor, “but I have not made any appointments for the next week, so that time and my ability are at your disposal. You did not mention in your letters just what the trouble was. Do you care to tell me now?”

  “Not now. Perhaps after dinner. You may be able to see for yourself. I am going to take you to your bedroom, and you may come down at six and meet the rest of the family.”

  The room that Overfield was taken to seemed comfortable in every way. Peterson left the room, hesitated, and came back.

  “Just a word of advice, Doctor. When you are alone in here, be sure to keep the door locked.”

  “Shall I lock it when I leave?”

  “No. That will not be necessary. No one will steal anything.”

  The Doctor shut the door, locked it according to advice, and went to the windows. They overlooked the woods. In the distance he could see a few deer. Nearer, white rabbits were playing on the lawn. It was a pretty view, but the windows were barred.