The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “From that day on,” he continued, “I never exhibited a trace of my supposed powers. My mother was frantic and tried to sue the university. I had something like a nervous breakdown. Then the divorce was granted, and my father got custody of me. He did his best to make me forget it. We went on long outdoor vacations and did a lot of athletics, associated with normal, matter-of-fact people. I went to business college eventually. I’m in advertising now. But,” Catesby paused, “now that I’m having nervous symptoms, I’ve wondered if there mightn’t be a connection. It’s not a question of whether I really was clairvoyant or not. Very likely my mother taught me a lot of unconscious deceptions, good enough to fool even young psychology instructors. But don’t you think it may have some important bearing on my present condition?”

  For several moments the doctor regarded him with a slightly embarrassing professional frown. Then he said quietly, “And is there some … er … more specific connection between your experiences then and now? Do you by any chance find that you are once again beginning to … er … see things?”

  Catesby swallowed. He had felt an increasing eagerness to unburden himself of his fears, but it was not easy to make a beginning, and the doctor’s shrewd question rattled him. He forced himself to concentrate. The thing he thought he had seen on the roof loomed up before his inner eye with unexpected vividness. Yet it did not frighten him. He groped for words.

  Then he saw that the doctor was not looking at him but over his shoulder. Colour was draining out of the doctor’s face and his eyes did not seem so small. Then the doctor sprang to his feet, walked past Catesby, threw open the window, and peered into the darkness.

  As Catesby rose, the doctor slammed down the window and said in a voice whose smoothness was marred by a slight, persistent gasping, “I hope I haven’t alarmed you. I must have frightened him, for he seems to have gotten out of sight in a hurry. Don’t give it another thought. Doctors are frequently bothered by voyeurs … er … Peeping Toms.”

  “A Negro?” asked Catesby, moistening his lips.

  The doctor laughed nervously. “I imagine so, though my first odd impression was that it was a white man in blackface. You see, the colour didn’t seem to have any brown in it. It was dead-black.”

  Catesby moved toward the window. There were smudges on the glass. “It’s quite all right, Mr. Wran.” The doctor’s voice had acquired a sharp note of impatience, as if he were trying hard to reassume his professional authority. “Let’s continue our conversation. I was asking you if you were”—he made a face—“seeing things.”

  Catesby’s whirling thoughts slowed down and locked into place. “No, I’m not seeing anything that other people don’t see, too. And I think I’d better go now. I’ve been keeping you too long.” He disregarded the doctor’s half-hearted gesture of denial. “I’ll phone you about the physical examination. In a way you’ve already taken a big load off my mind.” He smiled woodenly. “Good night, Dr. Trevethick.”

  Catesby Wran’s mental state was a peculiar one. His eyes searched every angular shadow, he glanced sideways down each chasm-like alley and barren basement passageway, and kept stealing looks at the irregular line of the roofs, yet he was hardly conscious of where he was going. He pushed away the thoughts that came into his mind, and kept moving. He became aware of a slight sense of security as he turned into a lighted street where there were people and high buildings and blinking signs. After a while he found himself in the dim lobby of the structure that housed his office. Then he realized why he couldn’t go home—because he might cause his wife and baby to see it, just as the doctor had seen it.

  “Hello, Mr. Wran,” said the night elevator man, a burly figure in blue overalls, sliding open the grillwork door to the old-fashioned cage. “I didn’t know you were working nights now.”

  Catesby stepped in automatically. “Sudden rush of orders,” he murmured inanely. “Some stuff that has to be gotten out.”

  The cage creaked to a stop at the top floor. “Be working very late, Mr. Wran?”

  He nodded vaguely, watched the car slide out of sight, found his keys, swiftly crossed the outer office, and entered his own. His hand went out to the light switch, but then the thought occurred to him that the two lighted windows, standing out against the dark bulk of the building, would indicate his whereabouts and serve as a goal toward which something could crawl and climb. He moved his chair so that the back was against the wall and sat down in the semi-darkness. He did not remove his overcoat.

  For a long time he sat there motionless, listening to his own breathing and the faraway sounds from the streets below: the thin metallic surge of the crosstown streetcar, the farther one of the elevated, faint lonely cries and honkings, indistinct rumblings. Words he had spoken to Miss Millick in nervous jest came back to him with the bitter taste of truth. He found himself unable to reason critically or connectedly, but by their own volition thoughts rose up into his mind and gyrated slowly and rearranged themselves, with the inevitable movement of planets.

  Gradually his mental picture of the world was transformed. No longer a world of material atoms and empty space, but a world in which the bodiless existed and moved according to its own obscure laws or unpredictable impulses. The new picture illumined with dreadful clarity certain general facts which had always bewildered and troubled him and from which he had tried to hide: the inevitability of hate and war, the diabolically timed machines which wrecked the best of human intentions, the walls of willful misunderstanding that divided one man from another, the eternal vitality of cruelty and ignorance and greed. They seemed appropriate now, necessary parts of the picture. And superstition only a kind of wisdom.

  Then his thoughts returned to himself, and the question he had asked Miss Millick came back, “What would such a thing want from a person? Sacrifice? Worship? Or just fear? What could you do to stop it from troubling you?” It had become a practical question.

  With an explosive jangle, the phone began to ring. “Cate, I’ve been trying everywhere to get you,” said his wife. “I never thought you’d be at the office. What are you doing? I’ve been worried.”

  He said something about work.

  “You’ll be home right away?” came the faint anxious question. “I’m a little frightened. Ronny just had a scare. It woke him up. He kept pointing to the window saying ‘Black man, black man.’ Of course it’s something he dreamed. But I’m frightened. You will be home? What’s that, dear? Can’t you hear me?”

  “I will. Right away,” he said. Then he was out of the office, buzzing the night bell and peering down the shaft.

  He saw it peering up the shaft at him from the deep shadows three floors below, the sacking face pressed against the iron grillwork. It started up the stair at a shockingly swift, shambling gait, vanishing temporarily from sight as it swung into the second corridor below.

  Catesby clawed at the door to the office, realized he had not locked it, pushed it in, slammed and locked it behind him, retreated to the other side of the room, cowered between the filing cases and the wall. His teeth were clicking. He heard the groan of the rising cage. A silhouette darkened the frosted glass of the door, blotting out part of the grotesque reverse of the company name. After a little the door opened.

  The big-globed overhead light flared on and, standing just inside the door, her hand on the switch, he saw Miss Millick.

  “Why, Mr. Wran,” she stammered vacuously, “I didn’t know you were here. I’d just come in to do some extra typing after the movie. I didn’t … but the lights weren’t on. What were you—”

  He stared at her. He wanted to shout in relief, grab hold of her, talk rapidly. He realized he was grinning hysterically.

  “Why, Mr. Wran, what’s happened to you?” she asked embarrassedly, ending with a stupid titter. “Are you feeling sick? Isn’t there something I can do for you?”

  He shook his head jerkily, and managed to say, “No, I’m just leaving. I was doing some extra work myself.”

  “B
ut you look sick,” she insisted, and walked over toward him. He inconsequentially realized she must have stepped in mud, for her high-heeled shoes left neat black prints.

  “Yes, I’m sure you must be sick. You’re so terribly pale.” She sounded like an enthusiastic, incompetent nurse. Her face brightened with a sudden inspiration. “I’ve got something in my bag that’ll fix you up right away,” she said. “It’s for indigestion.”

  She fumbled at her stuffed oblong purse. He noticed that she was absent-mindedly holding it shut with one hand while she tried to open it with the other. Then, under his very eyes, he saw her bend back the thick prongs of metal locking the purse as if they were tinfoil, or as if her fingers had become a pair of steel pliers.

  Instantly his memory recited the words he had spoken to Miss Millick that afternoon. “It couldn’t hurt you physically—at first … gradually get its hooks into the world … might even get control of suitably vacuous minds. Then it could hurt whomever it wanted.” A sickish, cold feeling came to a focus inside him. He began to edge toward the door.

  But Miss Millick hurried ahead of him.

  “You don’t have to wait, Fred,” she called. “Mr. Wran’s decided to stay awhile longer.”

  The door to the cage shut with a mechanical rattle. The cage creaked. Then she turned around in the door.

  “Why, Mr. Wran,” she gurgled reproachfully, “I just couldn’t think of letting you go home now. I’m sure you’re terribly unwell. Why, you might collapse in the street. You’ve just got to stay here until you feel different.”

  The creaking died away. He stood in the centre of the office motionless. His eyes traced the course of Miss Millick’s footprints to where she stood blocking the door. A sound that was almost a scream was wrenched out of him.

  “Why, Mr. Wran,” she said, “you’re acting as if you were crazy. You must lie down for a little while. Here, I’ll help you off with your coat.”

  The nauseously idiotic and rasping note was the same; only it had been intensified. As she came toward him he turned and ran through the storeroom, clattered a key desperately at the lock of the second door to the corridor.

  “Why, Mr. Wran,” he heard her call, “are you having some kind of fit? You must let me help you.”

  The door came open and he plunged out into the corridor and up the stairs immediately ahead. It was only when he reached the top that he realized the heavy steel door in front of him led to the roof. He jerked up the catch.

  “Why, Mr. Wran, you mustn’t run away. I’m coming after you.”

  Then he was out on the gritty gravel of the roof, the night sky was clouded and murky, with a faint pinkish glow from the neon signs. From the distant mills rose a ghostly spurt of flame. He ran to the edge. The street lights glared dizzily upward. Two men walking along were round blobs of hat and shoulders. He swung around.

  The thing was in the doorway. The voice was no longer solicitous but moronically playful, each sentence ending in a titter.

  “Why, Mr. Wran, why have you come up here? We’re all alone. Just think, I might push you off.”

  The thing came slowly toward him. He moved backward until his heels touched the low parapet. Without knowing why or what he was going to do, he dropped to his knees. The face he dared not look at came nearer, a focus for the worst in the world, a gathering point for poisons from everywhere. Then the lucidity of terror took possession of his mind, and words formed on his lips.

  “I will obey you. You are my god,” he said. “You have supreme power over man and his animals and his machines. You rule this city and all others. I recognize that.”

  Again the titter, closer. “Why, Mr. Wran, you never talked like this before. Do you mean it?”

  “The world is yours to do with as you will, save or tear to pieces.” He answered fawningly, as the words automatically fitted themselves together into vaguely liturgical patterns. “I recognize that. I will praise, I will sacrifice. In smoke and soot and flame I will worship you for ever.”

  The voice did not answer. He looked up. There was only Miss Millick, deathly pale and swaying drunkenly. Her eyes were closed. He caught her as she wobbled toward him. His knees gave way under the added weight and they sank down together on the edge of the roof.

  After a while she began to twitch. Small noises came from her throat, and her eyelids edged open.

  “Come on, we’ll go downstairs,” he murmured jerkily, trying to draw her up. “You’re feeling bad.”

  “I’m terribly dizzy,” she whispered. “I must have fainted. I didn’t eat enough. And then I’m so nervous lately, about the war and everything, I guess. Why, we’re on the roof! Did you bring me up here to get some air? Or did I come up without knowing it? I’m awfully foolish. I used to walk in my sleep, my mother said.”

  As he helped her down the stairs, she turned and looked at him. “Why, Mr. Wran,” she said, faintly, “you’ve got a big black smudge on your forehead. Here, let me get it off for you.” Weakly she rubbed at it with her handkerchief. She started to sway again and he steadied her.

  “No, I’ll be all right,” she said. “Only I feel cold. What happened, Mr. Wran? Did I have some sort of fainting spell?”

  He told her it was something like that.

  Later, riding home in an empty elevated car, he wondered how long he would be safe from the thing. It was a purely practical problem. He had no way of knowing, but instinct told him he had satisfied the brute for some time. Would it want more when it came again? Time enough to answer that question when it arose. It might be hard, he realized, to keep out of an insane asylum. With Helen and Ronny to protect, as well as himself, he would have to be careful and tight-lipped. He began to speculate as to how many other men and women had seen the thing or things like it.

  The elevated slowed and lurched in a familiar fashion. He looked at the roofs again, near the curve. They seemed very ordinary, as if what made them impressive had gone away for a while.

  SONG OF THE DEAD

  Wyatt Blassingame

  AFTER GRADUATING FROM THE University of Alabama, Wyatt (Rainey) Blassingame (1909–1985) was eager to travel, so he hit the road and was given the nickname “Hobo.” He got a job with a newspaper but lost it within a year because of the Depression. He eventually found his way to New York City in 1933, where his brother Lurton, a literary agent, showed the young writer a stack of pulp magazines and told him to take them home and study them, as they were buying stories. Six weeks later, Wyatt, who had never even heard of the pulps, sold his first story. A slower writer than many of his contemporaries, he nonetheless sold four hundred stories to the pulps before serving as an officer in the U.S. Navy during World War II, and about six hundred throughout his career. The service gave him background for several books, and he graduated to the better-paying slick magazines like The Saturday Evening Post, Collier’s, American, and Redbook. When the fiction markets began to dry up, he turned to writing nonfiction articles, mainly on travel, and children’s books, mostly about animals and American history. His only book of mystery fiction was a short story collection, John Smith Hears Death Walking (1944). Perhaps his best-known mystery character was Joe Gee (a short name he liked because he could type it quickly but which still counted as two words), who couldn’t sleep while he was on a case. He also wrote many pulp stories under the pseudonym William B. Rainey.

  “Song of the Dead” was first published in the March 1935 issue of Dime Mystery Magazine.

  Song of the Dead

  WYATT BLASSINGAME

  Chapter One

  Deadly Doggerel

  You may say I’m crazy, but if you look at me you won’t laugh while you say it. You will turn away from me, shutting your eyes tightly, shaking your head in an effort to forget. It’s not that I’m deformed, and my face is not hideous. But you will see in my eyes some shadow of the things I have seen—and you will want to forget.

  For me there is no forgetting, and it is not a pretty thing to live as I do, remembering the thing
s which I must remember, and knowing already the misery which death holds for me. It is not a pretty thing to look into the mirror of a morning and see in your own eyes the things which I have seen in mine, the things which you may turn away from, clenching your teeth.

  We first saw Saba Island from St. Martin’s. We had anchored in what goes for a harbor and rowed into the little Dutch town of Phillipsburg. Our schooner was the only vessel in the harbor and looking back at it we could see the Caribbean stretch blue and purple to where a big rock formation rose like a tall blue cone, badly rumpled on one side, out of the sea. Silver clouds hid the top of the cone. Mary Wayne nodded and asked, “What island is that?”

  There were several Negroes standing around gaping at us the way they do at strangers. I pointed toward the cloud-topped island and repeated Mary’s question.

  “Dot’s Saba,” one of them answered.

  “Saba.” Mary spoke the word slowly. “I never heard of it.”

  “It’s on the chart,” John Wayne said. “That’s all I know.”

  Carl Hammer said, “I’ve heard about it. It’s Dutch. Not many persons live there; it’s just an extinct volcano sticking out of the sea. Practically nobody ever touches there.”